iL  f  r 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 


A  HISTORY  OF  CHRISTIAN  DOCTRINE. 

By  William  G.  T.  Shedd,  D.D.,  Professor  of  Systematic 
Theology  in  Union  Theological  Seminary,  New  York.  Two 
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CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS, 

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X?";^/?  c/Z-^^ 


LITERARY  ESSAYS 


BY 


WILLIAM   G.   T.   SIIEDD,  D.D., 

ROOSEVELT  PROFESSOR  OF   SYSTEMATIC  THEOLOGY  IN  UNION 
TUEOLOUICAL   SEMINARY,  NEW  YORK. 


/^4    ^ 


NEW    YORK: 
CHARLES     SCKIBNER'S    SONS, 

murKHHORH    TO 

bCRlBNER.   AUMSrUONG   Sl  CO. 


Copyright  by 

WILLIAM    G.-T     SHEDD, 

1878. 


Trow's 

Printing  and  Hookbinding  Co., 

205-213  Knst  i2tft  St, 

NEW   YORK, 


PREFACE. 


In  a  previous  volume,  entitled  Theological  Essays,  the  writei' 
brought  together  a  number  of  disquisitions  upon  theological  and 
theologico-philosophical  topics  ;  in  this,  he  has  collected  a  series 
that  relate  principally  to  aesthetics  and  literature.  The  two 
volumes  thus  contain  opinions  pertaining  to  a  considerable 
segment  of  the  circle  of  human  knowledge.  The  reader  will 
find  the  departments  of  theology,  philosophy,  both  physical  and 
metaphysical,  history,  rhetoric,  belles-lettres,  and  fine  art,  more 
or  less  represented.  The  author  is  far  from  claiming  that  his 
discussion  of  such  a  variety  of  themes  has  always  been  success- 
ful. His  only  object  in  alluding  to  this  variety  in  the  contents 
of  these  volumes  is,  to  call  attention  to  the  unity  and  system 
which,  he  is  confitlent,  will  be  found  in  the  method  of  discuss- 
ing the  subjects.  Rigiit  or  wrong,  the  opinions  themselves 
spring  out  of  one  intuition.  Tlie  fine  art  and  the  theology  are 
kindred  to  each  other;  the  philosophy  and  the  rhetoric  are 
homogeneous  in  their  spirit  and  tendency.  So  far,  however, 
as  his  own  convictions  are  concerned,  the  writer  finds  some 
reason  for  confidence  in  the  general  con-ectness  of  his  views,  in 
the  fact  that  they  arc  thus  iuterlocke<l  with  each  other  from  the 
first,  and  that  the  growth  of  his  own  mind  has  only  interlaced 
them  more  and  more.  The  opening  essay,  upon  the  true  nature 
of  Beauty  and  its  relation  to  hunum  culture,  was  comj)osed  in 
1851,  and  all  of  the  writer's  study  of  books  and  observation  of 


VI  PREFACK. 

tiiiin,  from  that  time  to  the  present,  has  only  raatle  liim  tenfold 
more  certain  that  the  theory  of  iPsthetics  then  presented  is  the 
true  one.  A  inomcMit's  glance  ont  upon  the  present  condition 
of  society  is  more  than  suflicient  to  show,  that  a  false  idea  of 
Beauty  and  its  functions  is  fatal,  not  only  to  cliaracter,  but  to 
lofty  and  noble  art.  (There  is  little  severity  in  the  current  cul- 
ture, and  there  is  little  of  the  ideal  or  heroic  in  it,  or  its  pro- 
ducts.) In  again  calling  att(Mition  to  the  aesthetics  of  Michael 
Angelo  and  Milton,  the  author  believes  that  he  is  doing  the 
state  some  service. 

We  hear  much  of  moral  character,  and  know  well  what  is 
meant  by  it.  But  there  is  such  a  thing  as  intellectual  charac- 
ter. There  is  a  virtue  of  the  head,  as  well  as  of  the  heart ;  a 
temper  of  the  understanding,  as  well  as  of  the  will.  It  grows 
out  of  high  theories ;  out  of  exact  formulas.  Only  education 
of  a  peculiar  type  will  produce  it.  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  in- 
tellectual character  cannot  be  divorced  from  moral.  Both  de- 
velop best  together,  even  as  in  the  human  body  the  brain  and 
the  heart  concur  in  a  common  life.  They  grow  in  pairs  like 
Wordsworth's  yew  trees : 

"  Those  fraternal  Four  of  Borrowdale 
Joined  in  one  solemn  and  capacious  grove  ; 
Huge  trunks !  and  each  particular  trunk  a  growth 
Of  intertwisted  fibres  serpentine  ' 

Up-coiling,  and  inveterately  convolved." 

Still,  the  imperfect  is  better  than  the  wholly  bad,  and  it  would 
be  well  if  those  who  shrink  from  the  severities  of  religion  would 
remember  that  there  are  severities  of  letters  and  of  art,  and, 
while  recoiling  from  all  contact  with  the  doctrines  of  theology, 
would  resolutely  place  themselves  under  the  influence  of  the 
higher  instead  of  the  lower  schools  of  literature.  If  they  can- 
not begin  at  the  beginning  and  make  their  sacrifice  to  God,  let 
them  at  least  sacrifice  to  the  austerer  muses.  Tlie  elevation  of 
the  intellect  might  be  a  precursor  to  that  of  the  heart. 

A  higher  type  of  intellectuality  is  greatly  needed  in  our  new 


PKEFACE.  vn 

America.  Strictness  and  not  laxity  should  characterize  our 
style  of  thinking,  our  speculative  theories,  our  judgments,  and 
our  tastes.  There  is  imminent  danger  of  the  contrary.  An 
easy  and  indulgent  theory  of  education  and  refinement  is 
formed  among  us,  and  unless  counteracted,  the  only  civilization 
on  this'  Western  continent  that  is  worth  anything  will  go  to  de- 
struction. There  is  just  now  a  great  clamor  and  demand  for 
"  culture,"  but  it  is  not  so  much  culture  that  is  needed  as 
discijyline.  Twenty  years  ago,  there  was  among  us  no  formally 
stated  theory  like  the  Epicurean,  but  there  was  too  much  Epi- 
cureanism running  through  society,  infusing  a  debilitating 
heat,  and  imparting  a  hectic  flush.  But  now,  the  philosophy 
of  Lucretius  is  distinctly  adopted  and  defended,  and  the  infidel 
physics  organizes  the  sensual  impulse  and  strengthens  the  sen- 
siuxl  bent  of  the  masses.  We  are  not  so  sound  and  healthy  a 
people  as  we  were  a  generation  ago.  The  debilitation  is  seen 
in  vices  that  prevail  over  the  whole  extent  of  the  land,  and 
mortice  themselves  into  the  frame-work  of  society  so  firmly  that 
society  must  be  shocked  and  racked  before  they  can  be  torn 
out.  It  is  seen  in  the  amusements  of  the  peojile,  especially  in 
our  large  cities,  which  are  fast  overflowing  their  limits,  and  in- 
undating the  country  with  their  fasliions  and  spirit.  Amuse- 
ments are  an  accurate  index  of  the  national  stamina,  and  the 
frivolous,  licentious  amusements  now  so  common  indicate  that 
the  American  is  undergoing  an  enervating,  debauching  process, 
as  the  cruel  gladiatorial  amusomonts  of  the  lloman  indicated  that 
he  underwent  a  hardening,  brutalizing  process.  And  it  is  dilU- 
cult  to  say  which  is  worst,  in  the  sweep  of  years,  and  with 
leference  to  the  perpetuity  of  society — this  modern  softening  of 
the  brain,  or  that  ancient  ossification  of  the  heart.  The  national 
decay  is  seen  again,  in  meicantile  deceit  and  breach  of  trusts, 
which  have  become  so  wide-spread  as  to  inspire  foreign  and 
domestic  capital  with  alarm  ;  causing  a  general  distrust  of  both 
individiial  and  national  credit,  and  ])roducing  a  general,  stagna- 
tion. It  is  .'«;en  in  the  venality  and  profligacy  of  politics,  mu- 
nicipal, state,  and  federal,  which  luis  sunk  republican  govern- 


Mil  PUEFACE. 

meut  almost  to  the  level  of  the  worst  specimens  of  monai-chy 
iu  the  times  of  the  second  Charles,  and  the  French  Regency. 

A  yet  worse  feature,  perhajjs,  because  it  stands  in  the  way 
of  reformation,  is  found  in  the  dislike  of  s.tern  recuperative 
theories  generally,  and  the  disposition  to  dilute  truth  and  tone 
down  the  austere.  The  intellectuality  of  the  nation  has  lost 
a  great  deal  of  its  early  fibre.  In  theology,  men  shrink  from 
thorough  statements  and  absolute  punishments,  as  a  weak  nerve 
does  from  the  north  wind.  In  philosophy,  even  professed  stu- 
dents avoid  all  the  deeper  problems,  and  all  the  strict  science. 
In  poetry,  those  who  read  and  relish  Soi:)ho.cles,  Dante,  and 
Milton,  are  greatly  in  the  minoi-ity.  And  in  art,  the  lofty 
abstract  ideal  has  well-nigh  vanished,  so  that  in  much  that 
goes  under  this  name,  sense  becomes  still  more  sensuous,  and 
flesh  still  more  carnal. 

The  true  course  is  to  look  these  facts  in  the  eye,  and  to  act 
accordingly.  In  1802,  a  great  poet,  English  to  the  bone,  and 
loving  his  country  as  he  loved  his  own  flesh,  denominated  Eng- 
land "  a  fen  of  stagnant  waters,"  and  invoked  tlie  stern  shade 
of  Milton  to  raise  her  up,  and  give  her  "  manners,  virtue,  free- 
dom, power."  The  American  Republic  needs  to-day  a  similar 
fidelity,  and  a  similar  affection,  from  all  her  true  sons. 

The  author  has  dwelt  the  longer  upon  the  opening  essay  in 
the  volume,  because  it  is  the  key-note  to  the  whole.  The  tracts 
upon  Rhetoric  and  Eloquence  are  in  the  same  line  with  the 
aesthetics;  affirming  the  ethical  theory  of  an  art  very  liable  to 
degenerate  into  intellectual  vanity  and  display.  The  views 
jn-esented  upon  English  Studies,  Language  and  Style,  Educa- 
tion and  mental  Discipline,  are  consonant  with  the  general 
theory,  and  illustrate  it.  The  two  articles  upon  the  Puritan 
and  the  African  natures,  bring  together  the  extremes  of  human 
traits,  the  temperate  and  the  tropical ;  and  by  the  sharp  con- 
trast may,  perhaps,  help  to  a  better  comprehension  of  both. 
The  longest  essay  in  the  series,  is  an  attempt  to  form  an  esti- 
mate of  the  jjhilosophy  and  theology  of  one  of  the  most  influ- 
ential intellects  of  the  nineteenth  century.     It  was  written  in 


PEEFACE.  IX 

1852,  as  an  introduction  to  the  complete  edition  of  the  writings 
of  Coleridge  published  by  the  Messrs.  Harper,  and  is  by  their 
kind  permission  republished  in  this  form.  At  the  time  of  its 
production,  and  for  years  previously,  there  had  been  various 
and  discordant  opinions,  especially  in  theological  circles,  re- 
specting the  correctness  and  value  of  Coleridge's  views.  The 
wiiter  has  seen  no  reason  to  alter  the  general  estimate  which 
he  made  in  his  eai'ly  life.  The  points  upon  which  he  then 
agreed,  and  upon  which  he  then  dissented,  stand  the  same  with 
him  now.  With  the  excej)tion  of  a  modified  view  of  the  doc- 
trines of  atonement  and  inspiration,  he  believes  the  matured 
and  final  opinions  of  Coleridge  to  be  in  harmony  with  the  evan- 
gelical system,  as  consti'ucted  and  adopted  in  England  and 
Aimeiica.  The  present  state  of  sentiment  in  the  reading  and 
cultivated  classes,  makes  the  philosophical  opinions  of  Cole- 
rid<fe  more  valuable  than  ever.  He  was  the  first  Eiii^lishman  at 
the  beginning  of  the  century,  to  combat  the  materialism  of 
Hartley,  Priestley,  and  the  French  Encyclopaedists ;  and  at  the 
close  of  the  century,  the  distinctions  which  he  laid  down,  and 
the  positions  wliich  he  maintained,  are  still  the  best  answer  to 
the  revived  materialism  of  their  successors. 

The  closing  article  upon  the  Confessions  of  Augustine  directs 
attention  to  a  form  of  religious  experience  that  is  deeply  inter- 
esting to  the  believer,  and  not  less  so  to  the  psychologist.  No 
intellect  outside  of  the  circle  of  inspiration  has,  on  the  whole, 
influenced  the  human  mind  so  greatly  as  the  North-African 
father.  Theology  has  moved  mankind,  both  pagan  and  Chris- 
tian, more  than  lias  philosophy,  or  science,  or  art.  Man's  re- 
ligion is,  after  all,  the  j)rincipal  feature  in  his  history.  It  ex- 
plains peace,  and  it  explains  war.  A  great  theologian  is  there- 
foie  a  prime  mover;  and  Augustine  was  eminently  such.  He 
shared  his  influence,  in  liis  own  day,  in  the  patristic  church, 
with  others ;  but  subsecpiently,  he  became  the  dominant  and 
controlling  sjiirit.  The  theology  of  the  entire  Middle  Ages  was 
chiefly,  thougli  imperfectly,  moulded  by  Augu.stine.  Anselm  and 
Aquinas  were  his  reverent  pupils;  and  neither  of  the  Scotuses 


X  TREFACE.  y 

would  have  ventiired  formally  to  oppose  him.  The  theology 
of  the  Reformalion  was  confessedly  founded  upon  the  Augus- 
tinian.  Luther  listened  to  Augustine,  when  he  would  listen  to 
no  other  father,  and  to  no  schoolman.  Calvin,  next  to  the 
written  word  of  God,  fortifies  his  positions  by  Augustine  ;  and 
wherever  in  the  wide  modern  world  Calvinism  has  directly  gone. 
or  exerted  any  indirect  influence,  the  thinking  and  experience 
of  the  son  of  Monica  has  reappeared.  The  Roman  Catholic 
still  claims  him.  Petavius,  and  Bellarmine,  and  Mohler,  all 
endeavor  to  prove  their  orthodoxy,  by  agreement  with  the  great 
anti-Pelagian.  The  roots  of  all  this  vast  intellectual  influence 
lay  in  that  wonderful  experience  so  powerfully  described  in  the 
Confessions.  At  a  time  when  the  forces  of  history  are  being 
investigated,  and  the  phenomena  of  the  religious  life  are  being 
examined  even  by  the  skeptic,  here  is  fertile  matter  for  thought 
and  study. 

Union  Theolosical  Skminakt 
New  Yobk,    Sept.    4,  1878, 


CONTENTS. 


FAOa 

The  true  nature  op  the  Beautiful  and  its  relation 

TO  Culture 1 

The  influence  and  method  of  English  Studies 37 

The  ethical  theory  of  Khetorig  and  Eloquence  ....     79 
The  characteristics   and    importance  of  a   Natural 

Rhetoric 123 

The   relation  of  Language  and  Style  to  Thought,.   149 

Scientific  and  Popular  Education 187 

Intellectual  Temperance 207 

The  Puritan  Character 229 

The  African  Nature 245 

Coleridge  as  a  Philosopher  and  Theologian 271 

The  Confessions  of  Augustine 345 


THE  TEUE  NATURE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL, 
AND  ITS  RELATION  TO  CULTURE  * 


Gentlemen  of  the  Literary  Societies: 

Coming  as  I  do  in  tlie  most  beautiful  season  of  the 
year,  into  the  midst  of  some  of  the  most  beautiful  scenery 
on  the  continent,  and  from  the  midst  of  scenery  differ- 
ently but  equally  beautiful  ;  coming  in  mid-sunnner  into 
the  valley  of  the  River  from  the  valley  of  the  Lake  ;  you 
will  not  be  surprised  that  my  subject  has  connections  with 
the  environment  in  which  I  wrote  and  in  which  I  speak. 
Surrounded,  both  while  thiidviiiy;  and  while  e:ivin<r  utter- 
ance  to  my  thoughts,  by  Beauty  ;  composing  and  speak- 
ing in  the  midst  of  a  material  nature  saturated  and  suf- 
fused with  this  element ;  it  will  not  ajjpear  forced  or 
unnatural  if  I  find  iu  it,  the  theme  of  our  reflections  at 
this  hour. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  however  to  surrender  myself,  or 
to  lead  others  to  surrender  themselves,  to  the  extreme 
influence  and  impression  of  this  quality,  and  to  fall  into 
a  vague  and  rhapsodic  train  of  thought  or  feeling.  On 
the  contrary  my  aim  will  be  purely  and  perhaps  intensely 
practical,  and  I  hope  with  the  aid  of  your  own  after- 

*  A  discourse  at  Amherst  College,  August  13,  1851. 


2  THK    TRUE    NATlRt:    OF    THE    BRAl'TIFUL, 

thought  to  make  the  particular  aspect  of  the  general 
subject  of  Aesthetics  that  will  be  exhibited,  contribute 
to  scholarship,  and  thorough  education. 
f  The  specilic  theme  then,  to  which  I  would  invite  your 
attention,  is  :  The  true  theory  and  relative  position  of  the 
Beautiful,  ivith  reference  more  particularhj  to  culture  and 
to  character.  In  investigating  this  subject,  I  think  we 
shall  find  it  one  for  the  times,  and  the  class  of  men 
addressed.  If  I  am  not  mistaken  we  shall  find,  in  a  false 
theory  of  Beauty,  and,  as  a  consequence,  in  the  false 
position  which  it  holds  as  a  source  and  instrument  of 
culture,  the  root  of  some  of  the  radical  defects,  and  false 
tendencies,  of  the  educated  class.  For  if  this  class  need 
any  one  thing  more  than  another,  it  is  a  rational,  sober, 
and  severe  estimate  of  the  essential  nature  of  the  Beauti- 
ful, and  especially  of  the  relation  which  it  sustains  to  the 
True  and  the  Good.  In  our  age  there  is  danger  that 
cultm-e  will  go  the  way  that  Grecian  and  Roman  culture 
went,  and  from  the  same  cause ;  an  undue  cultivation 
of  the  aesthetic  nature,  to  the  neglect  of  the  intellectual 
and  moral.  There  is  always  danger  lest  the  most  influ- 
ential class  in  society,  the  literary  and  cultivated  portion, 
form  and  shape  themselves  by  Beauty  more  than  by 
Truth,  by  Art  more  than  by  Philosophy  and  Religion. 

If  we  accept  the  Platonic  classification,  all  things  in 
the  universe  arrange  themselves  under  these  three  terms : 
the  Beautiful,  the  True,  and  the  Good.  These  three 
ideas  cover  and  include  all  that  can  possibly  come  before 
the  human  mind  as  a  worthy  object  of  thought  and 
action.  On  them,  as  a  foundation,  the  human  mind  has 
built  up  its  most  permanent  and  grandest  structures,  and 
with  them,  in  some  one  or  other  of  their  manifold  aspects 
the  human  mind  is  constantly  occupied.  The  idea  of 
the  Good  Ues  at  the  bottom  of  all  religion,  and  of  all 


AND    ITS    RELATION    TO    CULTURE.  6 

inquiries  connected  with  tliis  chief  concern  of  man.  The 
idea  of  the  True  lies  at  the  bottom  of  all  science,  and  of 
the  scientific  tendency  in  individuals  and  nations.  The 
idea  of  the  Beautiful  underlies  all  those  products  and 
agencies  of  the  human  soul  that  address  the  imagination  ; 
all  art,  and  all  literature  in  the  stricter  signification  of  the 
terra,  as  the  antithesis  of  science.  This  classification, 
the  work  of  the  most  philosophic  brain  of  antiquity,  at 
once  so  simple  and  so  comprehensive,  may  therefore  well 
stand  as  the  condensation  and  epitome  of  all  thought, 
and  the  key  to  all  the  varieties  in  human  culture  and 
national  character. 

But  what  is  the  order  in  which  these  ideas  stand  ?  — 
Which  is  first  and  which  is  last  in  importance  ?  AVhich 
is  most  necessary  and  absolute  in  its  natiu-c  ?  Which  is 
the  substance,  and  which  is  the  accident  ?  The  answer 
to  these  questions,  the  theory  upon  this  point,  according 
as  it  shall  be,  is  either  vital  or  fatal.  It  will  determine 
the  wliole  style  and  character  of  human  culture,  both 
individual  and  national.  If  Beauty  is  placed  first,  in 
speculation  and  in  life,  and  Truth  and  Goodness  are 
regarded  as  subordinate,  a  corresponding  style  of  educa- 
tion will  follow.  If  the  True  and  the  Good  are  recog- 
nized as  the  substance,  and  the  Beautiful  as  the  property 
and  shadow,  another  and  entirely  ditl'erent  style  will 
result.  Here,  therefore,  the  inquirer  stands  at  the  point 
of  divergence  between  the  two  principal  species  of  civili- 
zation and  culture  of  which  human  history  is  made  up ; 
that  of  luxury,  enervation,  decline,  and  full,  on  1h(!  one 
hand,  and  that  of  severiiy,  strength,  growth,  and  gran- 
dear,  on  the  other.  At  this  poini,  also,  he  stands  upon 
the  line  which  divides  the  lower  from  Ihe  higiicr  forms 
of  literalnre;  the  lower  from  Ihe  higher  products  of  art 
itself;  the  more  shallow  and  erroneous,  from  the  more 


4         THE  TRUK  NATUKE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL, 

profound  and  correct,  systems  of  jihilosophy  and  religion. 
Here  is  the  summit-level  and  ridge  whence  the  streams 
How  due  east  and  due  west,  never  to  mingle  in  a  common 
ocean.  For  if  history  teaches  anything,  it  teaches  that 
according  as  a  nation  and  a  national  mind  starts  from 
the  one  or  the  other  of  these  ideas,  as  a  point  of  depar 
ture  and  as  the  guiding  thought  in  its  career,  will  be  its 
etyle  of  development. 

The  true  theory  of  Beauty  subordinates  it  to  the  True 
and  the  Good.  Any  estimate  of  it,  that  sets  it  above 
these  two  eternal  and  necessary  ideas,  is  both  incorrect 
and  uni)hilosophical.  The  closer  we  think,  and  the 
nearer  we  get  to  the  essence  of  these  three  conceptions, 
the  more  clearly  shall  we  perceive  that  while  Truth  and 
Goodness  appear  more  and  more  absolute  and  necessary. 
Beauty,  in  comparison  ivith  them,  appears  more  and  more 
relative  and  contingent.  The  human  mind  can  never,  in 
its  own  thinking,  annihilate  the  Trvie  and  the  Good;  i.  e. 
it  cannot  conceive  of  their  non-existence.  It  cannot 
abstract  them  from  the  Divine  nature  and  from  the 
created  universe,  and  have  anything  substantial  left.  — 
These  must  be. 

If'these  fail, 
The  pillared  firmament  is  rottenness 
And  earth's  base  built  on  stubble. 

But  not  so  with  Beauty.  The  mind  can  abstract  it 
from  the  nature  of  God,  and  if  Truth  and  Goodness  still 
remain,  there  is  still  something  august,  something  awe- 
inspiring,  something  sublime,  left.  The  mind  can  think 
it  away  from  the  universe  of  God,  but  if  that  universe  is 
still  filled  with  the  manifestations  of  wisdom  and  excel- 
lence, it  is  still  worthy  of  its  architect.  It  is  indeed  true 
that  Beauty  has  a  real  and  immanent  existence,both  in  the 


AND  ITS  RELATION  TO  CULTURE.  O 

being  of  God  and  in  creation ;  but  the  point  we  are 
m-o-inw  is,  that  it  is  there  as  subordinate  to  these  moral 
elements,  and  these  higher  ideas.  It  is  indeed  tiaie  that 
from  eternity  to  eternity  Beauty  is  a  quality  in  the  nature 
of  the  First  Perfect  and  the  First  Fair,  and  from  this  foun- 
tain has  welled  up  and  pom-ed  over  into  the  whole  creation 
of  God  like  sunset  into  the  hemisphere,  but  it  has  been 
only  as  the  accompaniment  and  adornment  of  higher  and 
more  august  qualities.  The  Beautiful  is  not,  as  some 
teach,  either  the  True  or  the  Good ;  neither  is  it  more 
absolute  and  perfect  than  these.  These  are  the  substance, 
the  eternal  essence,  and  it,  in  relation  to  them,  is  the  acci- 
dent. The  Beautiful  indeed  inheres  in  the  True  and  tht* 
Good,  and  it  forever  accompanies  them,  even  as  light, 
according  to  the  fine  saying  of  Plato,  is  the  shadow  of 
God ;  but  it  is  not  therefore  to  be  regarded  as  the  highest, 
of  all  ideas,  or  as  the  crowning  element  in  the  universe. 

For  where  does  Beauty  reside  ?  Where  is  its  seat  ? 
Always  in  the /orw,  as  distinguished  from  the  substance^ 
When  the  human  soul  swells  with  the  feeling,  it  is 
impressed  not  by  the  truth  and  substantial  reality  of  an 
object,  but  by  something  that  in  comparison  with  this  is 
secondary  and  accidental.  When,  for  example,  the 
sense  for  Beauty  is  completely  filled  and  deluged  by  a 
sun-set  or  a  sun-rise,  the  essential  meaning  of  this  scene 
is  not  necessarily  in  the  soul.  That  which  this  scene  is 
for  Science,  its  truth  for  the  pure  intellect,  is  most  cer- 
tainly not  in  the  mind;  for  the  poetic  vision  and  the 
scientific  vision  are  contraries.  And  that  which  it  is  for 
Religion  may  be,  and  too  often  is,  alien  to  the  soul;  for 
(his  feeling  for  the  Beauty  that  is  in  the  sun-rise,  is  by 
no  means  identical  with  the  feeling  fortJKj  (Joodness  that 
is  there.  In  every  instance  it  is  the  form  and  not  the 
substance,   it  is   the   beauty    and   not    the   truth,   that 


6         THE  TRUE  NATURE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL., 

addresses  the  aesthetic  nature,  while  in  every  instance  it 
is  the  substance  and  not  the  form,  it  is  tlie  true  and  not 
the  beautiful,  that  addresses  the  intellectual  and  moral 
natures. 

'  And  why  should  it  not  be  so  ?  If,  as  we  have  seen, 
the  Beautiful  is  a  subordinate  quality ;  if  it  is  only  the 
glittering  garment  of  the  universe ;  to  what  part  of  man's 
natm'e  should  it  appeal,  but  to  that  luxviry  rather  than 
necessity  of  the  human  soul,  the  aesthetic  sense.  And 
so  it  is.  Over  against  that  Beauty  which  the  Creator 
has  poured  with  lavish,  I  had  almost  said  indifferent 
hand,  over  his  creation,  he  has  set  a  portion  of  man's  na- 
ture, whose  function  it  is  to  drink  it  in,  and  as  He  never 
intended  that  this  mere  decoration  of  his  works  should 
engross  the  soul  to  the  exclusion  of  the  wisdom  and 
goodness  displayed  iji  them,  so  He  never  intended  that 
the  sense  for  the  Beautiful  should  absorb  and  destroy 
the  sense  for  the  True  and  the  Good. 

/"^  We  shall  see  still  more  clearly  the  correctness  of  this 
theory  of  the  Beautiful,  by  considering  for  a  moment  the 
nature  and  influence  of  that  department  which  is  based 
upon  this  idea,  viz  :  Fine  Art.  The  aim  and  end  of 
Art  is  fine  form,  and  nothing  but  fine  form.  I  do  not 
forget  that  in  every  work  of  Art  there  is  a  truth  at  the 
bottom,  and  that  the  power  of  a  painting  or  a  statue  is 
dependent  upon  the  meaning'  everywhere  present  in  it. 
Still  this  significant  thought  at  the  base,  this  intellectual 
expression  in  the  product,  is  not  that  which  constitutes  it  a 
work  of  Art.  It  is  the  beauty  of  this  thought,  the  fine 
form  of  this  idea,  which  is  the  end  of  Art,  and  which 
renders  its  products  different  from  those  of  Science.  For 
if  Art  were  merely  and  purely  an  expression  of  truth,  how 
would  it  differ  from  Science,  and  why  would  not  every 
subject  that  had  meaning  in  it  be  a  fit  one  for  the  artist? 


AND    ITS    RELATION    TO    CULTURE. 


Art,  it  is  true,  has  a  significance,  and  it  is  high  and  ideal 
in  proportion  to  the  depth  and  fuhiess  of  the  idea  it  em- 
bodies, yet  it  differs  from  Science  and  Religion  by  em- 
ploying both  the  True  and  the  Good  as  means  only.  Its 
own  sole  end  is  Beauty,  to  which  it  subordinates  all 
else.  It  embodies  Truth  and  Virtue  only  that  it  may 
exhibit  the  beauty  in  them,  and  addresses  the  intellect  andy 
heart  only  that  it  may  reach  the  imagination.  After  all 
its  connection  with  the  substance,  Art  is  still  formal. 
And  tills  is  no  disparagement  to  it.  It  is  no  undervalu- 
ation to  draw  jtharp  lines  about  a  department  of  human 
effort,  and  strip  off  what  does  not  essentially  belong  to  it. 
Fine  Art  has  its  own  proper  and  important  vocation,  and 
Science  and  Religion  have  theirs,  and  each  is  honored  by 
being  strictly  defined,  and  rigorously  confined  to  its  own 
aim,  end,  and  limits. 

jSow  such  being  the  nature  of  Fine  Art,  considered  as  \ 
a  department  of  human  effort  and  an  instrument  to  be 
employed  in  educating  the  human  mind,  what  must  be 
its  influence  if  left  to  itself ;  if  unbalanced  and  uncom- 
pleted by  other  departments  ?  What  style  of  culture 
will  the  idea  of  the  Beautiful  originate  in  the  individual 
and  national  mind,  when  severed  from  the  ideas  of  the 
True  and  the  Good  ?  The  answer  to  this  question  is  to  be 
found  in  historv.  One  of  the  2;reat  historical  races,  in 
liie  plan  of  Providence,  received  its  training  and  develop- 
ment under  the  excessive  and  exorbitant  influence  of 
Beauty,  and  for  a  moment  I  invite  your  attention  to  an 
examination  of  the  results. 

The  Greek  mind  was  eminently  aesthetic,  and  the 
Greek  nature  was  controlled  by  a  too  strong  and  intense 
tendency  to  the  Beautiful.  If  the  liunian  mind  is  truth- 
ful and  solenin  anywhere,  it  is  so  within  the  sphere  of  re- 
ligion ;  but  we  may  say  of  the  Greek,  as  was  said  of  one 


N 


8         Tin:  TRUE  NATURE  OF  THE  BEAIT1KUI-, 

of  Ihe  most  genial  of  modern  errorists  by  one  of  the  most 
[)ro found  of  modern  thinkers,  that  lie  was  more  in  love 
with  the  beauty  of  religion  than  its  truth.  The  Greek 
religion  was  the  worship  of  Beauty,  and  the  whole  life 
of  the  people  ;  private  and  public,  literary  and  political ; 
was  formed  by  this  idea  to  an  extent  and  thoroughness 
never  witnessed  before  or  since.  But  the  Greek  mind, 
with  all  the  charm  and  influence  it  has  exerted  upon  the 
modern  mind,  and  will  continue  to  exert  to  the  last  syl- 
lable of  recorded  time,  had  one  great  and  radical  defect. 
The  True  and  the  Holy  did  not  interest  it  sufficiently. 
These  ideas  did  not  mould  it  and  form  it  from  the  cen- 
tre. Hence  the  Greek  nature  was  not  a  deep  and  sol- 
emn one.  It  never  felt,  unless  we  except  the  heroic 
period  in  its  history  ;  a  period  that  is  hardly  historic  ;  the 
influence  of  that  which  is  higher  than  Beauty,  and  which 
has  an  affinity  with  a  more  profound  part  of  the  human 
constitution  than  the  aesthetic  sense. 

The  truth  is,  that  as  the  intellectual  and  moral  nature 
of  man  is  his  highest  endowment,  so  the  True  and  the 
Good,  as  the  highest  ideas,  aredts  proper  correspondent. 
When,  therefore,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Greek,  a  relatively  in- 
ferior portion  of  the  soul  became  superior,  and  a  relatively 
inferior  idea  became  ultimate  and  engrossing,  it  was  not 
possible  that  the  highest  development  of  human  nature 
should  take  place,  or  the  highest  style  of  culture  should 
be  originated.  The  influence  which  the  Greek  mind  has 
exerted  upon  the  modern  world,  great  as  it  has  been,  and 
beneficial  as  it  has  been,  has  nevertheless  not  been  of  the 
absolutely  highest  order,  unless  we  set  the  aesthetic 
above  the  intellectual  and  moral.  Art  before  Science  and 
Religion,  and  tiie  culture  springing  from  the  form  above 
^tha.t  springing  from  the  substance. 

Far  be  it  from  me,  on  such  an  occasion  and  before 


AND    ITS    RELATION    TO    CULTURE.  9 

such  an  audience,  to  undervalue  classical  education.  I 
have  not  the  slightest  sympathy  with  that  Jacobinism  in 
literature  which  would  throw  aside  the  study  of  the  an- 
cient classics,  and  shut  out  the  modern  mind  fi-om  the 
beauty,  and  symmetry,  and  cultivating  influence,  of 
Greek  and  Roman  letters.  Still  it  should  be  remembered 
that  no  single  literature  can  do  everything  for  the  human 
intellect.  On  the  contrary,  each  and  every  literature  that 
is  historic  has  one  particular  function  to  perform.  In 
the  education  of  the  modern  mind,  classical  literature 
has  its  own  peculiar  office  to  discharge,  and  this  is,  to  in- 
fuse that  beauty  and  symmetry  which  it  possesses  in  so 
high  degree  into  modern  thought ;  to  furnish  a  fine  Form 
for  the  modern  Idea.  For  it  must  not  for  a  moment  be 
supposed  that  the  modern  mind  is  to  go  back  to  the 
ancient  for  the  substance  of  literature.  The  Chris- 
tian world  cannot  go  back  into  the  Pagan  world  in 
search  for  the  True  and  the  Good,  but  it  ever  must  go 
back  there  for  the  Beautiful.  For  the  sphere  of  cognition, 
and  consequently  of  reflection  and  feefing,  in  which  the 
ancient  mind  moved,  was  narrow  and  contracted,  com- 
pared with  the  "infinite  and  sea-hke  arena"  on  which 
the  modern  careers.  Not  that  minds  may  not  be 
found  in  the  ancient  world  of  equal  depth,  grasp,  and 
power,  with  any  that  have  adorned  modern  literature, 
but  the  materials  on  which  they  were  compelled  to  labor 
fell  far  short  of  that  which  is  the  subject  of  modern  effort, 
in  depth,  richness,  and  compass.  The  range  of  thought 
and  feeling,  in  which  the  ancient  mind  moved,  in  respect 
to  ihe  great  subjects  pertaining  to  man's  origin  and  des- 
tiny, was  "cal)ined,  criblx'd  and  confined,"  comparec' 
with  that  vast  expanse  in  which  it  is  the  privilege  of 
the  moch-rn  to  think  and  (eel.  The  Christian  Revela 
tion,  while  it  imparted  more  dcterminateness  and  signili- 


10         THE  TRUE  NATURE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL, 

cancc  io  those  doctrines  of  natural  religion  upon  which 
Plato  and  Aristotle  had  reflected  with  such  truthiulnesa 
and  profundity,  at  the  same  time  lodged  in  the  mind  of 
the  modern  world  an  amount  of  new  truth,  that  widened 
Infinitely  the  lield  of  human  vision,  and  the  scope  of  iiu- 
man  reflection.  We  have  but  to  compare  Homer,  Aes- 
chylus, and  Virgil,  with  Dante,  Shakspeare,  and  Milton, 
to  see  how  immensely  the  range  of  the  human  mind  was 
augmented  by  a  Divine  Revelation.  In  these  latter 
instances,  it  moves  in  a  region  large  enough  for  it, 
and  feels  the  influence  of  those  "  truths  dee])  as  the 
centre "  with  which  it  is  connected  by  origin  and  des- 
tiny ;  while  in  the  former  instances,  though  the  vague 
yearnings,  and  obscure  anticipations,  and  unsatisfied 
longings,  evidence  the  heaven-born  nature  of  the  human 
spirit,  yet  they  serve  only  to  reveal  still  more  clearly  the 
helplessness  of  its  bondage,  and  the  closeness  of  its  con- 
finement to  this  "  bank  and  shoal  of  time."  * 

But  although  the  Christian  Religion  so  widened  the 
sphere  of  human  thought  and  feeling,  and  so  deepened 
and  spiritualized  the  processes  of  the  human  mind,  and  so 
enriched  it  in  the  material  for  literature,  it  indirectly 
diminished  its  artistic  ability,  and  rendered  it  less  able  to 
embody  its  conceptions.  This  very  opulence  in  the  ma- 
terial, and  this  very  elevation  of  the  theme,  embarrassed 
the  mind.  For  in  proportion  to  the  richness  and  intrin- 
sic excellence  of  the  thought,  does  the  difficulty  increase, 

*  Hence  that  undertone  of  melancholy  in  the  more  serious  portions  ot 
classical  literature,  (as  the  Histories  of  Tacitus,  and  the  Morals  of  Plu 
tarch)  unrelieved  Uy  any  notes  of  hope  or  triumph  stnick  out  hy  thcknowl- 
ed},fe,  and  the  prospect,  of  the  final  consummation.  The  gloom  of  Danto 
is  far  different  from  the  gloom  of  Aeschylus;  for  while,  like  his,  it  springs 
from  the  conscioni-ness  of  the  life-long  conflict  hctween  good  and  evil,  it  is 
illumined  hy  the  knowledge  of  the  final  issue.  In  the  case  of  the  Pagaa 
'H«  gloom  is  made  thicker  by  the  total  ignorance  of  the  great  hereafter. 


L 


/ 


AND    ITS     RELATION    TO    CULTURE.  11 

of  putting  it  into  a  form  worthy  of  it.  The  problem  of 
Art,  in  every  instance,  is  to  attain  an  exact  correspond- 
ence between  the  matter  and  the  form ;  to  embody  the 
idea  in  just  the  right  amount  of  material,  so  that  the 
idea  shall  not  overflow  and  di-own  the  form,  nor  the  form 
overlay  and  crush  the  idea.  Hence,  among  other  quali- 
ties, the  cleanness,  the  niceness,  of  a  successful  work  of 
Art.  But  this  problem,  it  is  plain,  becomes  more  diffi- 
cult, in  proportion  as  the  idea,  or  guiding  thought,  is 
more  profound  or  significant  in  its  nature.  For  by  rea- 
son of  its  depth  and  expanse  it  becomes  vastly  more 
comprehensive  and  pregnant,  and  less  capable  of  being 
brought  within  the  limitation  of  Art,  within  the  boundt* 
of  a  form.  The  nearer  the  subject-matter  approaches 
the  infinite;  the  more  vast  and  unhmited  the  idea  in  the 
mind ;  the  greater  the  difficulty  of  exhibiting  it  in  the 
finite  shapings  of  Art. 

Now  the  ancient  mind  had  these  advantages.  In  the 
first  place  the  material,  the  truth,  upon  which  it  labored, 
was  far  more  wieldy  and  compassable  than  that  which 
is  presented  to  the  modern  mind,  and  in  the  second 
place  it  was  (especially  in  the  instance  of  the  Greek)  a 
much  more  artistic  mind,  in  and  of  itself;  The  resuli, 
consequently,  was  a  far  closer  correspondence  between 
the  substance  and  the  form,  and  hence  a  much  more 
successful  solution  of  the  problem  of  Fine  Art,  than  has 
ever  been  attained  by  any  other  j)e()ple. 
'  The  modern  mind  Ihcreforc,  the  Clirislian  world,  while 
it  cannot  go  back  inlo  llic  Pagan  world  for  lhe  subsiance 
of  literature,  for  the  True  and  the  (lood,  must  ever  go 
back  there  for  the  form,  for  the  Beaiiliful.  And  it  was 
precisely  because  IIk^  FiUroj)(';iii  iiiiiid.  in  llu^  fifteenth 
century,  felt  ihr  need  of  ihis  aesllielic  clcinciil  in  culture, 
which  it  was  conscious  of  not  possessing,  that  it  betook 


12        THE  TRUE  NATURE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL, 

itself  1o  cliissical  liteva+nre.  At  that  period,  when  the, 
human  mind  was  wakinj^  up  from  the  dormancy  of  Ihe 
middle  ages,  and  was  beginning  to  feel  the  fresh  im- 
piilses  of  the  Christian  Religion,  it  was  filled,  to  overflow- 
ing, with  ideas  and  principles,  thoughts  and  feelings.  Its 
powers  and  energies  were  being  almost  preternaturally 
roused  by  this  influx  of  new  truth,  the  natural  tendency 
of  w^hich  is  to  stir  the  human  soul,  preconforraed  as  it  is 
to  its  influence,  to  its  iimiost  centre.  But  this  season 
of  mental  fermentation  was  no  time  for  serene  contem- 
plation, and  beautiful  construction.  The  whole  materiel 
for  a  new  literature  was  originated ;  but  originated  in  a 
mind  agitated  to  its  lowest  depths  by  the  energy  and 
force  that  was  pouring  through  it,  and  which  for  this 
very  reason  was  not  master  of  itself,  or  of  the  material 
with  which  it  was  laboring.  Foj'm,  rounded  symmetri- 
cal finished  Form,  was  needed  for  this  Matter,  and 
hence  the  modern  betook  himself  to  the  studv  of  that  lit- 
erature  preeminent  above  all  others  for  its  artistic  per- 
fection. The  study  of  the  serene  and  beautiful  models 
in  which  Grecian  thought  embodied  itself  tamed  the 
wildly-working  mind  of  the  Goth,  and  imparted  to  it 
that  calm,  artistic,  formative  power  by  which  the  intel- 
lectual chaos  was  to  become  cosmos.* 

*  It  is  indeed  true,  that  in  the  higher  forms  of  Greek  literature  there  is  a 
remarkable  depth  and  seriousness  of  sentiment  which  seems  to  militate 
against  the  position  taken.  Here  the  Beautiful  is  more  in  the  back-ground, 
and  the  True  mainly  in  the  fore-ground.  But  it  should  be  remembered 
that  the  real  nature  and  tendency  of  the  Greek  appears  far  more  in  the 
lighter  forms  of  the  literature,  and  especially  in  that  wilderness  of  works  of 
Art  that  covered  all  Greece,  than  in  the  deep-toned  poetry  of  Homer  and 
Aeschylus,  or  the  profound  sentiment  of  Plato  and  Thucydides.  This  por- 
tion of  Greek  literature  derived  its  tone  and  matter  from  that  elder  period,' 
that  heroic  age; (.when  the  national  mind  was  impressed,  as  the  elder  mind 
always  has  been,  more  by  the  essential  than  the  formal,  more  by  Truth 
than  by  Beauty,  j 


AXD    ITS     RELATION    TO    CULTURE.  13 

But  if  the  literature  of  the  Greeks  is  predominantly 
aesthetic,  and  performs  this  aesthetic  function  in  the  sys- 
tem of  modern  education,  the  national  character  was 
still  more  so.  The  student  of  Grecian  history,  especially 
of  the  internal  history  of  the  Greeks,  is  struck  with  the 
disparity  between  the  national  character  and  the  na- 
tional literature;  between  the  products  of  the  Greek 
mind,  or  rather  of  a  few  choice  Greek  minds,  and  the 
Greek  himself  The  more  the  student  becomes  acquaint- 
ed with  that  extremely  imaginative  and  extremely  tasteful, 
but  too  lively  and  too  volatile,  race  of  men,  the  more 
does  he  wonder  that  so  much  depth  and  truth  of  senti- 
ment should  be  found  in  the  literature  that  sprang  up 
among  them  ;  the  more  docs  he  wonder  that  the  native 
bent  and  tendency  of  the  national  mind  did  not  overrule, 
and  suppress,  all  these  higher  elements.  It  is  only  on 
the  supposition  that  the  great  men  of  Greece  were  above 
their  race,  and  breathed  in  a  more  solemn  and  medita- 
tive atmosphere  than  that  sunny  air  in  which  the  Athe- 
nian populace  lived,  that  he  can  account  for  the  remark- 
able diflcrence  between  the  profound,  severe,  and  moral, 
spirit  of  tiie  Greek  tragedy,  and  the  fickle,  gay,  and  alto- 
gether trilling  temper  of  tlie  Ionic  race. 

Whatever  this  excessive  tendency  to  the  Beautiful 
may  have  wrought  out  for  the  Greeks,  in  some  respects, 
it  is  certain  that  it  contributed  to  the  enervation  and  de- 
struction of  all  strong  character  in  tlie  nation.  That 
Ionic  race,  instead  of  following  indulgently  and  extrava- 
gantly, as  th(;y  did,  their  native  bias,  ought  to  have  sub- 
jected it  to  the  most  severe  education  and  restraint. 
Those  two  other  ideas  which  dawned  in  such  solemnity 
and  power  ui)on  the  intellect  of  their  greatest  philoso- 
pher, ought  to  have  rained  down  inllnence  upon  them. 
Those  more  serious  and  awe-inspiring  objects  of  reflection, 


li  THE    TRUE    NATURE    OF    THE    BEAtlTIFUL, 

the  True  and  the  Good,  ought  to  have  dawned  upon  the 
popular  mind  in  a  clearer  light  and  with  a  more  overcom- 
ing pow(>r.  How  diU'erent,  so  far  as  all  the  grand  and 
heroic  elements  of  national  character  are  concerned,  were 
the  Greeks  of  that  golden  age  of  ancient  Art,  the  age  of 
Pericles,  from  the  Romans  of  the  days  of  Numa !  We 
grant  that  there  is  but  little  outward  beauty,  in  that 
naked  and  austere  period  in  Roman  history,  but  there  is 
to  be  found  in  that  character,  as  it  comes  down  to  us  in 
the  legends  of  Livy  and  has  been  reconstructed  in  the 
pages  of  Niebuhr,  the  strongest,  and  soundest,  and 
grandest,  and  sublimest,  nationality  in  the  Pagan  world. 
And  tiiis  was  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  early  Roman 
was  intellectual  and  moral,  rather  than  aesthetic.  I  am 
speaking,  it  will  be  remembered,  of  a  Pagan  character, 
and  my  remarks  must  be  taken  in  a  comparative  sense. 
Bearing  this  in  mind,  we  may  say  that  the  strength  and 
grandeur  of  the  national  character  of  the  first  Romans, 
sprang  from  the  fact  that  it  was  moulded  and  shaped  main- 
ly by  the  ideas  of  Truth  and  Virtue.  The  aesthetic  nature 
was  repressed,  and,  if  you  please,  almost  entirely  suppress- 
ed, but  the  intellect  and  the  moral  sense  were  developed 
all  the  more.  Hence  those  high  qualities  in  their  na- 
tional character ;  courage,  energy,  firmness,  probity,  pat- 
riotism, reverence  for  the  gods  and  the  oath ;  qualities 
that  were  hardly  more  visible  in  the  ancient,  than  they 
are  in  the  modern,  Greek. 

And  this  brings  us  to  the  more  distinct  consideration 
of  what  we  suppose  to  be  the  influence  of  Fine  Art, 
when  it  becomes  the  leading  department  of  effort,  and 
the  chief  instrument  and  end  of  culture,  for  the  individ- 
ual or  the  nation.  The  efiect  of  the  Beautiful  upon  the 
human  soul,  when  unmixed,  uncounteracted,  and  exorbi- 
tant, is  enervation.     And  this,  from   the  very  nature  of 


AND  THE  RELATION  TO  CULTURE.  15 

the  element  itself.  We  have  seen  that  it  cannot  be 
placed  upon  an  equality  with  the  other  two  elements  that 
enter  into  the  constitution  of  the  universe.  It  cannot  be 
regarded  as  so  substantial  and  so  necessary  in  its  nature, 
as  the  True  and  the  Holy.  It  is  only  the  property  and 
decoration  of  that  which  is  essential  and  absolute.  It  is 
only  the  form.  It  consequently  does  not  address  the 
highest  faculties  of  the  human  soul,  and  if  it  did,  could 
not  waken  or  generate  power  in  them.  When,  therefore, 
it  is  made  to  do  the  work  of  the  higher  ideas ;  when  it  is 
compelled  to  go  beyond  its  own  proper  sphere,  the  aesthet- 
ic nature,  and  to  furnish  aliment  for  the  intellectual  and 
moral  nature  ;  it  is  set  at  a  work  it  can  never  do.  The 
intellect  and  moral  sense  demand  their  own  appropriate 
objects  ;  they  require  their  correlatives,  the  True  and  the 
Good ;  they  cry  out  for  the  substance  and  cannot  be  sat- 
isfied with  the  form,  however  beautiful.  When  there- 
fore Beauty  is  selected  as  the  great  idea,  by  which  the 
individual  or  national  mind  is  to  be  moulded,  the  result 
is  of  necessity  mental  enervation.  The  human  intellect 
cannot,  any  more  than  the  human  heart,  be  content  with 
mere  form.  Like  the  heart,  it  cries  out,  in  it^s  own  way, 
for  the  living  God ;  for  Truth  and  Goodness,  the  most 
essential  qualities  in  the  Divine  nature ;  for  Wisdom  and 
Virtue,  the  most  essential  elements  in  the  moral  universe 
He  has  made.  And  what  is  there  in  tiie  very  process  of 
Art  itself,  when  it  is  isolated  from  the  other  and  highei 
departments  of  human  effort,  that  goes  to  render  man' 
more  intellectual  ?  The  very  vocation  of  Art  is  to  sen- 
sualize ;  using  th(;  term  technically  and  in  no  bad  sense. 
Its  processes,  so  far  as  they  are  merely  artistic,  are  not 
spiritnalizing,  but  the  contrary.  The  vocation  of  Art,  is 
to  bring  down  ;in  idea  of  the  liniiian  niiiid;  a  purely  in- 
tellectual, purely  inniiaterial,  entity  ;  into  the  sphere  of 


J 


16        THE  TRUE  NATURE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL, 

sense,  and  there  materialize  it  into  colors,  and  lines,  and 
outlines,  and  proportions,  for  the  sense,  ^'he  very  call- 
iing  of  Art,  as  a  department  of  effort,  is  to  render  sensu- 
ous the  spiritual.'N  And  the  fact  that  it  does  this,  in  the 
case  of  all  high  Ai-t,  in  an  ideal  manner;  that  in  the  gen- 
uine product,  the  idea  shines  out  everywhere  through  the 
beautiful  form  ;  does  not  conflict  with  the  position.  If, 
therefore,  in  a  general  Avay  and  for  the  purpose  of  char- 
acterizing the  departments,  we  may  say  that  in  Science 
and  Religion  the  mental  process  is  spiritualizing,  we 
may  affirm  that  in  Art  the  process  is  sensualizing.  If  in 
the  analysis  and  synthesis  of  the  True  and  the  Good,  the 
mind  passes  through  an  increasingly  intellectual  .procesf, 
in  the  embodiment  of  the  merely  Beautiful,  it  passes 
through  an  exactly  opposite  one.  If  Philosophy  and  Re- 
ligion tend  to  render  the  mind  more  intellectual.  Fine  Art 
tends  to  render  it  more  material  and  sensuous  by  fixing 
the  eye  on  the  form. 

Now  such  an  influence  as  this  upon  the  human  mind 
and  character,  if  unbalanced  and  uncounteracted,  is, 
enervating.  There  may  be,  and  generally  has  been, 
great  outward  refinement  and  a  most  luxurious  ele- 
gance thrown  over  the  culture  that  originates  under 
such  influences,  but  it  is  too  generally  at  the  expense  of 
strength  and  virtue  and  heroism  of  character.  However 
high  the  aims  of  the  individual  or  the  nation  may  have 
been  in  the  outset,  history  shows  too  plainly,  that  the 
nerve  was  soon  relaxed  and  the  mind  slackened  all  away, 
at  first,  into  a  too  luxurious,  and  finally,  into  a  voluptu- 
ous culture.  When  the  Artist,  l)y  the  very  theory  and 
:netaphysical  nature  of  his  vocation,  is  compelled  to  keep 
nis  eye  on  Beauty,  on  Fine  Form,  on  the  sensuously 
Agreeable,  he  must  be  a  strong  and  virtuous  nature  that 
'is  not  mastered  by  his  calling.     If  he  can  preserve  an 


AND    ITS    RELATION    TO    CULTURE.  17 

austere  tone ;  if  he  can  even  keep  himself  up  on  the  high 
ground  of  an  abstract  and  ideal  Art,  and  not  sink  into  a 
too  ornate  and  licentious  style ;  we  may  be  certain  that 
there  was  great  moral  stamina  at  bottom. 

But  speculation  aside,  let  us  appeal  to  history  again. 
What  does  the  story  of  Art  in  modern  times  teach  in 
relation  to  the  position  that  the  unmixed,  unbalanced, 
effect  of  the  Beautiful,  is  mental  enervation  ?  The  most 
wonderful  age  of  Art  Avas  that  of  Leo  X.  The  long 
slumber  of  the  aesthetic  nature  of  man,  during  the  bar- 
barism and  warfare  of  those  five  centuries  between  the 
dismemberment  of  the  Roman  empire  and  the  establish- 
ment of  the  principal  nations  and  nationalities  of  modern 
Europe,  was  broken  by  an  outburst  of  Beauty  and  Beauti- 
ful Art,  as  sudden,  rapid,  and  powerful,  as  the  bloom  and 
blossom  of  spring  in  the  arctic  zone.  Such  a  multitude 
of  artists  and  such  an  opulence  of  artistic  talent,  will 
probably  never  be  witnessed  again  in  one  age  or  nation. 
But  did  a  grand,  did  even  a  respectable,  national  charac- 
ter spring  into  existence  along  with  this  bloom  of  Art, 
this  shower  of  Beauty  ?  We  know  that  there  were  other 
influences  at  work,  and  among  others  a  religious  system 
whose  very  natm-e  it  is  to  carnalize  and  stifle  all  that  is 
distinctively  sj)iritual  in  the  human  soul;  but  no  one  can 
study  the  history  of  the  period,  without  being  convinced 
that  this  excessive  and  all-absorbing  tendency  of  the 
general  mind  of  Italy  towards  Beauty  and  Fine  Art  con- 
tributed greatly  to  the  general  enervation  of  soul.  Most 
certaioly  it  did  not  work  counter  io  it.  Read  the  me- 
moirs of  a  man  like  Benvenuto  CeUini  ;  an  inferior  man 
it  is  true,  but  an  artist  and  rcncc-ling  Hie  general  features 
of  his  time  ;  and  see  how  utterly  unlit  both  the  individual 
and  national  eullnre  of  that  period  was  for  any  lolly, 
high-minded,  truly   liistoric,  achievement.     The  solenni 


/ 


IS  THE    TRUE    NATUUl',    OF    Till',     BEAUTIFUL, 

truths  of  Religion,  and  the  lofty  truths  of  Philosophy, 
exerted  little  or  no  iniiuence  upon  that  group  of  Italian 
artists,  so  drunken  with  Beauty.  They  possessed  little 
of  that  intellectual  severity  which  enters  into  every  great 
character;  little  of  that  strung  muscle  and  hard  nerve 
which  should  sujiport  the  intellect  as  well  as  the  will.  — 
And  therefore  it  is  that  we  cannot  fuid  in  the  Italian  his- 
tory of  those  ages,  any  more  than  in  the  Italian  character 
of  the  present  day,  any  of  that  high  emprise  and  grand 
achievement  which  crowds  the  history  of  the  Teutonic 
races,  less  art-loving,  but  more  intellectual  and  moral. — ■ 
These  races  and  their  descendants  have  sometimes  been 
charged  with  a  destitution  of  the  aesthetic  sense,  and  the 
inferiority  of  their  Art,  compared  with  that  of  Italy,  has 
been  cited  as  proof  of  their  inferiority  as  a  race  of  men  ; 
but  it  is  enough  to  say  in  reply,  that  these  Goths,  educa- 
ting themselves  mainly  by  the  ideas  of  the  True  and  the 
Good,  have  given  origin  to  all  the  literatures,  philosophies, 
and  systems  of  government  and  religion  that  constitute 
the  crowning  glory  of  the  modern  world.  The  Italian 
intellect  was  enfeebled  and  exhausted  by  that  unnatural 
bu'th  of  Beauty  upon  Beauty.  Ever  since  the  fourteenth 
century,  it  has  been  wandering  about  in  that  world  of 
fine  forms,  like  Spenser's  knight  in  the  Bower  of  Bliss, 
until  all  power  of  intellect  is  gone. 

Every  truly  great  and  grand  character,  be  it  individual 
or  national,  is  more  or  less  a  severe  one ;  a  character 
which,  comparatively,  is  more  intellectual  and  moral, 
than  aesthetic*  This  position  merits  a  moment's  exam in- 

*  According  to  the  etymolofry  of  the  old  Grammarians,  favored  by  Doe- 

dcrlein,  the  severe  is  the  intensely  true.    Doederkin  i.  76,  praiferenduni  cen- 

set  vett.     Gramm.  scntentiam  qua  severus  co;,'nationem  haheat  cumber ««; 

ita  ut  se,  ex  more  Gr.    a    priv.,  intensivam  vim  contineat. 

—  Fucciolati's  Lexicon  in  loc. 


AND    ITS    RELATION    TO    CULTURE.  19 

ation.  And  in  the  first  place,  look  into  political  history 
and  see  what  traits  lie  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  best 
periods  in  national  development.  Out  of  what  type  of 
mind  and  style  of  life  has  the  venerable,  the  heroic^  age 
always  sprung  ?  Ai'e  men  enervate  or  are  they  austere, 
are  they  aesthetic  or  are  they  intellectual  and  moral 
in  culture,  during  that  period  when  the  national  virtue 
is  formed  and  the  historic  renown  of  the  people  is 
acquired  ? 

The  heroic  age  of  Greece,  as  it  comes  down  to  us  in 
the  Homeric  poems,  was  a  period  of  simplicity  and  strict- 
ness. The  Greeks  of  that  early  time  were  intellectual 
men,  moral  men,  compared  with  the  Greeks  of  the  days 
of  Alcibiades.  Turn  to  the  pages  of  Athenaeus,  and  get 
a  view  of  the  in-door  life  and  every-day  character  of  a 
still  later  period  in  Grecian  history,  and  then  turn  to  the 
corresponding  picture  of  the  heroic  period  contained  in 
the  Odyssey,  mark  the  difference  in  the  impression  made 
upon  you  by  each  representation,  and  know  froin  your 
own  feelings,  that  all  that  is  strong,  and  heroic,  and 
simple,  and  gi-and,  in  national  character  springs  from  a 
severe  mind  and  a  predominantly  moral  culture,  and  all 
that  is  feeble,  and  supine,  and  inelFicient,  and  despicable,  in 
national  character,  springs  from  a  luxurious  mind  and  a 
predoiriinaMliy  aesthetic  culture. 

And  how  stands  the  case  with  Rome  ?  Which  is  the 
venerable  period  in  her  history?  Is  it  to  be  sought  for 
in  i1m'  hixnrious  and  (so  far  as  Rome  ever  had  it)  the 
aesthetic  civilization  of  the  em|iire,  or  in  the  intellectual 
and  moral  civilization  of  the  monarchy  and  republic? 
Ail  1h<;  strength  and  grandeur  of  the  Roman  character 
and  of  tiic  Roman  nationality  lies  back  of  the  third  Punic 
war.  Nay,  if  Ronn;  had  been  concpiered  by  Carthage, 
and  had  gone  out  of  j)()litical  existence,  its  real  glory,  it« 


20 


TIIF,    TRUE    NATURE    OF    THE    BEAUTIFUL, 


proper  liistoric  renown,  would  have  been  greater  than  it 
is.  If  in  the  idea  called  up  by  the  word  Rome,  there 
were  wanting,  there  could  be  eliminated,  the  physical 
corruption  and  the  luxurious  but  merely  outward  refine- 
ment of  the  empire,  and  there  were  left  only  the  stern 
virtue,  the  sublime  endurance,  and  the  moral  grandeur, 
of  the  monarchy  and  republic,  the  idea  v^ould  be  more 
^■sublime  in  history  and  more  impressive  in  contemplation. 
And  whence  originated  that  Sabine  element,  that  tough 
core,  that  hard  kernel,  in  the  Roman  character,  that  lay 
at  the  centre  and  kept  Rome  up,  during  her  long  agony 
of  intestine  and  external  conflict?  It  had  its  origin, 
among  the  mountains,  amid  the  great  features  of  nature, 
and  it  was  purified  by  the  privation  and  hardship  of  a 
severe  life  in  the  forests  of  central  Italy,  on  that  spine  of 
the  Ausonian  peninsula,  until  it  became  as  sound,  sweet, 
and  hard,  as  the  chestnuts  of  the  Appenines  upon  which 
Jt  was  fed.  Intellectual  and  moral  elements,  and  not  an 
aesthetic  element,  were  the  hardy  root  of  all  the  political 
power  and  prosperity  of  Rome. 

There  is  no  need,  even  if  there  were  time,  to  cite- 
instances  corroborating  the  view  presented,  from  modern 
political  history.  The  Puritanism  of  Old  England  and 
of  New  England  will  readily  suggest  itself,  to  every  one, 
as  the  one  eminently  austere  national  character,  with 
which  the  power  and  glory  of  the  Enghsh  and  xinglo- 
American  races,  and  the  highest  hopes  of  the  modern 
world,  are  vitally  connected.  It  will  be  sufficient  to 
say,  that  the  more  profound  is  our  acquaintance  with 
political  history,  the  more  clearly  shall  we  see  that 
all  that  is  powcrfid,  and  permanent,  and  impressive,  in 
the  nations,  nationalities,  and  governments  of  the 
world,  sprang  directly  or  indirectly  from  a  nature  in 
which  the  aesthetic  was  subordinate  to  the  intellectual 


AND    ITS    RELATION    TO    CULTURE.  21 

and  moral,  and  for  which  the  True  and  the  Good  were 
moie  supreme  ideas  than  the  Beautiful. 

Furthermore,   the    position   taken  holds    true   in   the 
sphere    of  literature    also.     The    great  works   in    every 
instance  are  the  productions  of  a  severe    strength ;  of 
"  the  Herculeses  and  not  the  Adonises  of  literature,"  to 
use  a  phrase  of  Bacon.     When  the  aesthetical  prevails 
over  the  intellectual  and  moral,  the  prime  qualities,  the 
depth,  the  originality,  and.the  power,  die  out  of  letters, 
and  the  mediocrity  that  ensues  is  but  poorly  concealed 
by  the  elegance  and  polish  thrown  over  it.     Even  when 
there  is  much  genius  and  much  originality,  an  excess  of 
Art,  a  too  deep  suffusion  of  Beauty,  a  too  fine  flush  of 
color,  is  often  the  cause  of  a  radical  defect.     Suppose 
that  the  poetry  of  Spenser  had  more  of  that  passion  in  it 
which  Milton  mentions  as  the  third  of  the  three  main 
qualities  of  poetry ;  suppose   (without  however  wishing 
to  deny  the  great  excellence  of  the  Fairy  Queen  in  regard 
to  intellectual  and  moral  elements)  that  the  proportion 
of  the  aesthetic  had  been  somewhat  less,  would  it  not 
have  been  more  powerful  and  higher  poetry  ?     Suppose 
that  the  mind  and  the  culture  of  Wieland  and  Goethe 
had  been  vastly  more  under  the  influence  of  Truth,  and 
vastly  less  vuider  tiiat  of  Beauty  ;    that   the  substance, 
instead  of  the  form,  had  been  the  mould  in  which  these 
men  were  mouldc^d  and  fitted  as  intellectual  workmen  ; 
might  not  the  first  have  come  nearer  to  our  Spenser,  and 
might   not  the  latter  have  produced  some  works   that 
would  perhaps  begin  to  justify  his   ardent  but  ignorant 
achnirers  in  placing  iiim  in  the   same  class  with   Shaks- 
peare  and  Milton  ;  a  position  to  which,  as  it  is,  he   has 
not  the  slightest  claim. 

Ah  a  crowning  and  conilusivc  jjroofof  the  correctness 
of  the  view  presented,  I  will  refer  you  to  only  one  mind. 


22        THE  TRUE  NATURE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL, 

1  refer  you  to  John  Milton,  one  of  those  two  minds  which 
tower  high  above  all  others  in  the  sphere  of  modern  lite- 
rature. If  there  ever  was  a  man  in  whom  the  aesthetic 
was  in  complete  subjection  to  the  intellectual  and  moral, 
without  being  in  the  least  suppressed  or  mutilated  by 
them,  that  man  was  Milton.  If  there  ever  was  a  human 
intellect  so  entirely  master  of  itself,  of  such  a  severe  typ{;, 
that  all  its  processes  seem  to  have  been  the  pure  issue  of 
discipline  and  law,  it  was  the  intellect  of  Milton.  In 
contemplating  the  grandeur  of  the  products  of  his  mind, 
we  are  apt  to  lose  sight  of  his  mind  itself,  and  of  his 
intellectual  character.  If  we  rightly  consider  it,  the  dis- 
cipline to  which  he  subjected  himself,  and  the  austere 
style  of  intellect  aiid  of  Art  in  which  it  resulted,  are  as 
worthy  of  the  reverence  and  admiration  of  the  scholar  as 
the  Paradise  Lost.  We  have  unfortunately  no  minute 
and  detailed  account  of  his  every-day  life,  but  from  all 
that  we  do  know,  and  from  all  that  we  can  infer  from 
the  lofty,  colossal,  culture  and  character  in  which  he 
comes  down  to  us,  it  is  safe  to  say  that  Milton  must 
have  subjected  his  intellect  to  a  restraint,  and  rigid  deal- 
ing with  its  luxurious  tendencies,  as  strict  as  that  to 
which  Simon  Stylites  or  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  subjected 
their  bodies.  We  can  trace  the  process,  the  defecating 
purifying  process,  that  went  on  in  his  intellect,  through 
his  entire  productions.  The  longer  he  lived  and  the 
more  he  composed,  the  severer  became  his  taste,  and  the 
more  grandly  and  serenely  beautiful  became  his  works. 
It  is  true  that  the  theory  of  Art,  and  of  culture,  opposed 
to  that  which  we  are  recommending,  may  complain  of 
the  occasional  absence  of  Beauty,  and  may  charge  as  a 
fault  an  undue  nakedness  and  austerity  of  form.  But 
one  thing  is  certain  and  must  be  granted  by  the  candid 
critic,  that  whenever  the  element  of  Beauty  is  found  in 


AND  ITS  RELATION  TO  CULTURE.  23 

Milton,  it  is  found  in  absolute  purity.  That  intense 
refining  process,  that  test  of  light  and  of  fire,  to  which  all 
his  materials  were  subjected,  left  no  residuum  that  was 
not  perfectly  pm-e.  And  therefore  it  is,  that  throughout 
universal  literature,  a  more  absolute  Beauty  and  a  more 
delicate  aerial  gi-ace,  are  not  to  be  found  than  appear  in 
the  Comus  and  the  fourth  book  of  Paradise  Lost. 

But  we  are  not  anxious  on  this  point  of  Beauty, 
especially  in  connection  with  the  name  of  Milton.  Sub- 
limity is  a  higher  quality,  and  so  are  Strength  and  Gran- 
deur ;  and  if  Beauty  does  not  come  in  the  train,  and  as 
the  mere  ornament,  of  these,  it  is  not  worth  while  to  seek 
it  by  itself  and  for  its  own  sake.  And  much  will  be 
gained  when  education,  and  culture,  and  authorship,  shall 
dare  to  take  this  high  stand  which  Milton  took ;  shall 
dare  to  pass  by  Beauty,  in  the  start,  and  to  aim  at  deeper 
elements  and  loftier  qualities,  in  the  train,  and  as  the 
ornament  of  which,  a  real  Beauty  and  an  absolute  Grace 
shall  follow  of  themselves.  ^ 

Returning  then  to  the  intellectual  character  of  Milton, 
let  me  advise  you  to  study  that  character  until  you  see 
that  the  strict,  and  philosophically  severe  theory  of  the 
Beautiful  and  of  Art  lies  under  the  whole  of  it.  Milton 
had  no  aflinities  for  excessive  sensuous  Beauty.  He  was 
no  voluptuary  in  any  sense.  So  far  as  the  sense  was 
concerned  he  was  abstemious  as  an  ascetic,  and  so  far  as 
the  soul  was  concerned  he  knew  no  such  Ihing  as  luxury. 
He  devoted  himself  to  poetry,  an  Art  which,  glorious  as 
it  is,  yet  has  tendencies  that  need  counteraction,  which 
tempts  to  Arcadi-.iii  and  indulgent  vi(!ws  of  Iniiimii  life 
and  human  character,  and  which,  as  literary  hisU)ry 
shows,  has  too  often  been  llic  medium  Hirongh  which 
dreamy  and  unconirollcd  nalrncs  have  communicated 
themselves  to  the  world.     But  as  a  poet,  he  constructed 


24       THE  TRUE  NATURE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL, 

with  all  the  truth  of  Science  and  all  the  purity  of 
Religion.  The  j^oetic  Art,  as  it  appears  in  Milton,  is 
spiritual  and  spiritualizing.* 

If  this  element  of  severity  is  entirely  wanting  in  a 
man  ;  if  he  is  entirely  destitute  of  austerity  ;  if  his  nature 
is  wholly  and  merely  aesthetic,  constantly  melting  and 
dissolving  in  an  atmosphere  of  Beauty ;  whatever  else 
may  be  attributed  to  him,  strength  and  grandeur  cannot 
be.  We  do  not  deny  that  there  is  a  sort  of  interest  in 
such  natures,  but  we  deny  that  it  is  of  the  highest  sort. 
If  a  man  is  born  with  a  beautiful  soul,  and  it  is  his  ten 
dency  (to  use  a  Shaksperean  phrase)  "  to  wallow  in  the 
lily  beds;"  to  revel  in  luxurious  sensations,  be  they 
wakened  by  material  or  immaterial  Beauty ;  unless  he 
subject  his  mind  to  the  training  of  higher  ideas,  and  of  a 
higher  department  than  that  of  Fine  Art,  his  career  will 
end  in  the  total  enervation  of  his  being.  This  tendency 
ought  in  every  instance  to  be  disciplined.  The  individ- 
ual in  whom  it  exists,  ought  to  superinduce  upon  it  a 
strictness  and  austerity  that  will  check  its  luxuriance, 
and  bring  it  within  the  limits  of  a  severer  and  therefore 
purer  taste. 

The  least  injurious  and  safest  form  which  an  undue 
aesthetic  tendency  can  take  on,  is  a  quick  sense  for  the 
Beautiful  in  natm-e.  But  even  here,  an  unbalanced, 
uneducated,  tendency  is  enervating  That  dreamy  mood 
of  young  poets,  that  dissolving  of  the  soul  in  "  the  light 
of  setting  suns,"  must  be  educated  and  sobered  by  a 
stern  discipline  of  the  head  and  heart,  or  no  poetry  will 


*  We  may  say  of  Milton,  in  reference  to  the  highly  ideal  character  of  his 
Art,  as  Fuseli  has  said  of  the  same  feature  in  Michael  Angelo  ;  "  he  is  the 
salt  of  Art."  He  saves  it  from  its  inherent  tendency  to  corruption,  by  a 
larger  infusion  of  intellectual  and  moral  elements  thau  exists  in  the  average 
nroductions  of  the  department. 


AND  ITS  RELATION  TO  CULTURE.  25 

be  produced  that  will  go  down  through  all  ages.  It  is 
not  so  much  a  deep  tendency  as  a  transient  mood  of  the 
soul,  and  needs  the  infusion  of  intellectual  and  moral 
elements,  in  order  that  it  may  become  "  the  vision  and 
faculty  divine."  Turn  to  a  great  collection,  like  Chal- 
mers' British  Poets,  and  observe  how  large  a  portion  of 
this  mass  of  poetry  is  destitute  of  the  power  of  produ- 
cing a  permanent  impression  upon  the  human  imagina- 
tion ;  how  little  out  of  this  great  bulk  is  selected  to  be 
read  by  the  successive  generations  of  English  students ; 
how  small  a  portion  of  it,  compared  with  the  whole 
amount,  is  profoundly  and  genuinely  poetic ;  and  at  the 
same  time  notice  how  very  much  of  it  was  evidently 
composed  under  the  influence  which  the  Beautiful  in 
nature  exerts  upon  an  undisciplined,  and  uneducated, 
aesthetic  sense,  and  you  will  have  the  strongest  possible 
proof  of  the  enervating,  enfeebling,  influence  of  this 
quality  when  isolated  from  the  intellectual  and  moral.  — 
The  mind  needed  a  deeper  culture,  and  a  discipline 
wrought  out  for  it  by  higher  ideas,  that  could  use  and 
elaborate  these  obscure  feelings,  these  dim  dreams,  this 
blind  sense,  for  the  purposes  of  a  higher  and  more  genuine 
Art.  It  is  often  said,  we  know,  that  science  is  the  death 
of  poetry.;  that  the  study  of  the  Kantean  philosophy 
injured  the  poetry  of  Schiller,  and  the  study  of  all  philo- 
sophies the  poetry  of  Coleridge  ;  that  the  charm,  and 
ihe  glow,  and  the  flush,  and  the  fulness,  and  the  .uxuri- 
ancc,  and  the  gorgeousncss,  were  all  destroyed  by  the 
acid  and  blight  of  science.  But  we  do  not  believe  this. 
These  poets  might  have  written  more,  had  their  imagina- 
tion not  been  passed  through  these  severe  processes  of 
the  intellect,  they  might  have  been  more  (luent,  but  that 
they  would  have  written  more  that  will  have  a  las/iiii^ 
poetic  interest  remains  to  he  seen.     Their   Art   is  all   the 


26        THE  TRUE  NATURE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL, 

.'li^lior,  for  the  check  and  restraint  imposed  upon  their 
poetic  nature.  And  who  will  not  say,  to  take  a  plain 
example,  that  if  the  young  soul  of  Keats  could  have  been 
corded  with  a  stronger  muscle,  and  overshaded  with  a 
severer  tone  of  feeling  and  sentiment;  that  if  a  more 
masculine  culture  could  have  been  married  with  that 
genuinely  feminine  soul ;  a  higher  poetry  and  a  still 
purer  Beauty  would  have  been  the  offspring  of  this 
hymeneal  union  ?  * 

And  this  brings  us  to  the  more  positive  side  of  the 
subject.  Thus  far  we  have  spoken  in  a  negative  way  of 
what  the  Beautiful  is  not,  and  of  what  it  cannot  do  for 
the  human  soul  and  human  culture.  We  now  affirm 
that  only  on  the  theory  which  subordinates  Beauty  to 
Truth  can  the  highest  style  of  Beauty  itself  be  originated, 
and  that  only  when  the  department  of  Aesthetics  is  sub- 
ordinate to  those  of  Philosophy  and  Religion,  does  a 
genuinely  beautiful  culture,  either  individual  or  national, 
spring  into  existence.  Without  this  check  and  subor- 
dination, the  aesthetic  quality  will  destroy  itself  by 
becoming  excessive.  The  more  staple  elements  that 
must  enter  into  and  substantiate  it,  will  all  evaporate ; 
as  if  the  "warm  organic  flesh  should  all  turn  into  the  fine 
flush  of  the  complexion ;  as  if  the  air  and  the  light  and 
the  foliage  and  the  waters,  all  the  material,  all  the  solidity/, 
of  a  beautiful  landscape,  should  vanish  away  into  mere 
crimson  and  vermilion.  For,  as  we  have  already 
observed,  true  Beauty  in  a  work  of  Art,  is  conditioned 
upon  the  presence  in  it  of  some  intelligible  idea.  There 
must  be  some  truth  and  some  ex):)ression,  in  order  to  the 
existence  of  the  pure  quality  itself.  Beauty  cannot  stand 
alone.     There  must  be  a  meaninji:  underneath  of  which 


'& 


*  If  the  school   of  Tennyson   needs  any  one  tiling,  it  is  an  austerer 
ii.anner. 


AXD    ITS    RELATION    TO    CULTURE.  27 

it  is  the  clothing.  There  must  be  an  intellectual  concep- 
tion \\dthin  the  product,  to  which  it  can  cling  for  sup- 
port, and  from  which  it  derives  all  its  growing,  lasting, 
highest  charm  for  a  cultivated  taste.  Hence  it  is,  that 
as  ^ve  go  up  the  scale.  Beauty  actually  becomes  more 
ideal,  more  and  more  intellectual  and  moral.  It  under- 
goes a  refining  process,  as  it  rises  in  grade,  whereby  the 
sensuous  element,  so  predominant  in  the  lower  products 
of  Art,  is  volatilized.  There  is  more  appeal  to  the  soul 
and  less  to  the  sense,  as  we  go  up  from  the  more  florid 
and  showy  schools  of  painting,  e.  g.,  to  the  more  ideal 
and  spiritual.  The  same  is  true  of  the  Beautiful  in  na- 
ture. As  we  ascend  from  the  inferior  to  the  higher  veg- 
etation, we  find  not  only  a  more  delicate  organization, 
but  a  more  delicate  Beauty.  The  gaudy  and  coarse  col- 
oring gives  place  to  more  exquisite  hues,  in  proportion 
as  miiul ;  in  proportion  as  the  presiding  intellig-ence  of  the 
Creator ;  comes  more  palpably  into  view.  In  the  words 
of  Milton,  all  things  are 

more  refined,  more  spirituous,  and  pure, 
As  nearer  to  Ilini  placed,  or  nearer  tending, 
Till  body  up  to  spirit  Avork. 

So  from  the  root 
Springs  lighter  the  green  stalk  ;  from  thence  the  leaves 
More  aery ;  last  the  bright  consuinniiUe  flower 
Spirits  odorous  breathes  ;  flowers  and  their  fruit, 
Man's  nourishment,  by  gradual  scale  sublimed 
To  vital  spirits  aspire,  to  animal, 
To  intelUctuuL* 

And  all  things  grow  more  highly  beautiful  as  wc  keep 
pace  with  this  upward  step  in  natun;,  until  we  pass  ovci 
into    the    distinctively    spiritual    spiiere,    and   reach    the 

*  Pur.  Lost.  V.  475. 


28        THE  TRUE  NATURE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL, 

crown  and  completion  of  all  Beauty  ;  the  beauty  of  char- 
acter, or  the  "  beauty  of  holiness."  Observe  that  all 
along  this  limitless  line  we  find  a  growing  severity ;  that 
is,  an  increase  of  the  intellectual  or  moral  element.  Sen- 
suous beauty  is  displaced,  or  rather  absorbed  and  trans- 
figured, by  intellectual  beauty ;  the  ideas  of  the  True  and 
the  Good  more  and  more  assert  their  supremacy,  by  em- 
ploying the  Beautiful  as  the  mere  medium  through  which 
they  become  visible,  even  as  light,  after  traversing  the 
illimitable  fields  of  ether  without  either  color  or  form,  on 
coming  into  an  atmosphere,  into  a  medium,  thickens  in- 
\  to  a  solid  blue  vault. 

A  reference  to  the  actual  history  of  Fine  Art  will  also 
verify  the  position  here  taken.     As  matter  of  fact,  we 
find  this  spiritualizing  process  ;  this  advance  of  the  sub- 
stance and  this  retreat  of  the  form  ;   going  on  in  every 
school  of  Art  that  grew  more  purely  and  highly  beautiful, 
and  in  the  soul  of  every  artist  who  went  up  the  scale  of 
artists.     That  school  which   did   not  grow  more  ideal, 
invariably  grew  more  sensuous  and  less  beautiful,  and 
that  artist  who  did  not  by  study  and  discipline  become 
more    strict   and   pure    in   style,    invariably  sunk  down 
into  the  lower  grade.    All  the  w^orks  of  Art  that  go  dowai 
through  succeeding  ages  with  an  ever-growdng  beauty  as 
well  as  an  ever-towering  sublimity;  all  the  great  models 
and  master-pieces ;  owe  their  origin  to   a   most    exact 
taste  and  a  most  spiritual  idea.     The  study  of  the  great 
models  in  every  department  of  Art,  be  it  painting,  or 
sculpture,  or  poetry,  will  convince  any  one  that  the  im- 
agination, the  artist's  faculty,  when  originating  its  great- 
est works  imposes  restraints  upon  itself;  in  reality  is 
rigorous  with  itself.    If  the  artist  allows  his  imagination  to 
revel  amid  all  the  possible  forms  that  will  throng,  and 
oress,  through  this  wonderfully  luxuriant  and  productive 


AND  ITS  RELATION  TO  CULTURE.  29 

power ,  if  he  suffers  it  to  waste  its  energy  in  an  idle  play 
with  its  thick-coming  fancies  ;  if,  in  short,  he  does  not 
preserve  it  a  rational  imagination,  and  regulate  it  by  the 
deeper  element  and  higher  principle  inherent  in  it,  his 
productions  wiU  necessarily  be  in  the  lower  style.  It 
is  for  this  reason  that  the  artist  betakes  himself  to  study. 
He  would  break  up  this  revelry  of  a  lawless,  uneducated, 
imagination.  He  would  set  limits  to  a  vague  and  aim- 
less energy.  He  would  ^vield  a  productive  talent  that 
lies  lower  down  ;  that  works  more  calmly  and  grandly ; 
more  according  to  reason  and  a  profounder  Art.  The 
educating  process,  in  the  case  of  the  artist,  is  intended  to 
repress  a  cloying  luxuriance  and  to  superinduce  a  beau- 
tiful austerity ;  to  substitute  an  ideal  for  a  material  beau- 
ty. Hence  we  see  that  the  artist,  as  he  grows  in  power 
and  high  excellence,  grows  in  strictness  of  theory  and 
severity  of  taste.  His  products  are  marked  by  a  graver 
beauty,  and  tiie  presence  of  a  purer  ideal,  as  he  goes  up 
the  scale  of  artists. 

As  an  example,  we  may  cite  the  instance  of  IMichael 
Angelo.  For  grandeur,  sublimity,  and  power  of  perma- 
nent impression,  he  confessedly  stands  at  the  head  of  his 
Art,  and  although  in  regard  to  beauty,  Raphael  may  dis- 
pute the  palm  with  him,  and  by  some  may  be  thought  his 
superior,  yet  no  one  can  deny  that  (as  in  the  case  of  Mil- 
ton) whenever  this  element  does  appear  in  "  the  mighty 
Tuscan,"  it  is  of  the  most  absolute  and  perfect  species." 

*  Winckclmann.  looking  from  his  point  of  view,  which  was  that  of  classic 
Art  merely,  has  expressed  a  disparafjint;  opinion  in  regard  to  Angelo,  so  far 
as  the  Beautiful  is  concerned,  and  seems  to  have  laid  the  foundation  for  tiie 
Buperfieial  and  too  general  opinion,  that  in  respect  to  this  ([iiality  he  was  hy 
nature  greatly  inferior  to  Kaphacl.  But  the  al)le  editors  of  his  works  justly 
call  attention  to  the  fact,  that  Winckelmann  is  wrong  in  judging  of  modern 
Art  in  this  servile  way,  and  allude  to  a  scarce  and  hut  little  known  poem 
jf  Angclo's,  in  which  a  most  delicate  and  feminine  appreciation  of  heautj 


30        TMF,  TRUE  NATURE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL, 

Yet  all  his  productions  are  characterized  by  an  austere 
manner.  The  form  is  always  subservient,  and  perhapa 
sometimes  somewhat  sacrificed,  to  the  idea.  And,  at 
any  rate,  the  man  himself,  compared  with  the  Italian 
artists  generally,  compared  wiih  Raphael  especially,  was 
a  spiritual  man  both  in  culture  and  character.  We  con- 
fess that  we  look  with  a  veneration  bordering  upon  awe 
upon  that  grand  nature,  abstinent,  abstract,  and  ideal,  in 
an  age  that  was  totally  sensuous  in  head  and  heart,  and 
in  a  profession  whose  most  seductive  and  dangerous  ten- 
dency is  to  soften  and  enervate.  By  the  force  of  a  strong 
heroic  character,  as  well  as  a  hard  and  persevering  study 
both  of  Ai't  and  of  Nature,  he  counteracted  that  ten- 
dency to  a  sensuous  and  a  sensualizing  beauty,  which 
we  have  noticed  as  the  bane  of  Art,  and  in  that  nerve- 
less age,  so  destitute  of  lofty  virtue  and  stern  heroism, 
stands  out  like  the  Memnon's  head  on  the  dead  level  of 


is  apparent.  "  In  this  poem,"  say  they,  "  the  great  Jlichael  Angelo  reveals 
himself  in  a  manner  that  appears  striking  and  wonderful  to  such  as  have 
known  him  only  from  iiis  paintings  and  statues.  Heartfelt  admiration  for 
beauty,  love  too  deep  to  be  disclosed  to  its  object,  a  gentle  touching  sadness 
wakened  by  the  sense  of  an  existence  that  cannot  satisfy  an  infinite  affec- 
tion, and  a  melancholy  longing,  growing  out  of  this,  for  dissolution  and 
freedom  from  the  bonds  of  earth,  form  the  ground-tone  of  this  warmly-glow- 
ing poem,  in  which  Angelo  gives  an  expression  of  the  feminine  element  in 
his  great  and  mighty  nature,  that  is  all  the  more  lovely  from  the  fact  that 
the  masculine  principle  is  the  prevailing  and  predominant  one  in  his  works 
of  Art." —  Winckelmann^s  Werke  von  Meyer  und  Schulze,  iv.  43,  and  Anmerk. 
p.  262. 

Consonant  with  this  are  the  following  remarks  of  Lanzi.  "  We  may  here 
observe  that  when  Michael  Angelo  was  so  inclined,  he  could  obtain  distinc- 
tion for  those  endowments  in  which  others  excelled.  It  is  a  vulgar  error  to 
suppose  that  he  had  no  idea  of  grace  and  beauty  ;  the  Eve  of  the  Sistino 
Chapel  turns  to  thank  her  Maker,  on  her  creation,  with  an  attitude  so  fiaa 
Bnd  lovely  that  it  would  do  honor  to  Raphael." 

History  of  Paintinij,  (Rcxoe's  Trans.)  i.  176. 


AND  ITS  RELATION  TO  CULTURE.  31 

the  Nile,  grand  and  lonely,  yet  with  "  elysiaii  beauty 
and  melancholy  grace." 

And,  in  this  connection,  I  cannot  refrain  from  calling 
your  attention  to  that  greatest  of  American  artists,  who 
is  at  once  a  proof  and  illustration  of  the  truth  of  the  gen- 
eral theory  advanced.  No  man  will  suspect  Allston  of 
an  underestimate  of  the  Beautiful.  In  the  whole  cata- 
logue of  ancient  and  modern  artists,  there  is  not  to  be 
found  a  single  one  in  Avhose  mind  this  element  existed 
in  more  unmixed  and  absolute  purity :  —  beauty 

chaste  as  the  icicle 
That's  curded  by  the  frost  from  purest  snow, 
And  hangs  on  Dian's  temple. 

,  But  this  spirituality  was  the  fruit  not  only  of  a  pure 
nature,  but  of  a  high  theory.  He  recognized  and  felt  the 
supremacy  of  the  True  and  the  Good,  over  the  Beautiful. 
The  reader  of  his  lectures  on  Art,  is  struck  with  the  re- 
ligious carefulness  with  which  he  insists  upon  the  supe- 
rior claims  of  Truth  over  those  of  mere  Art,  and  the 
earnestness  with  which  he  seeks  to  elevate  and  spiritual- 
ize the  profession  which  he  honored  and  loved,  by  making 
it  the  organ  and  proclamation  of  Truth  and  Holiness. 
By  this,  we  think  the  fact  can  be  explained  that  he  pro- 
duced so  Uttle,  compared  with  the  exhaustless  fertility  of 
the  Italian  artists.  His  ideal  was  so  high,  the  Beautiful 
was  so  spirilualhj  beautiful  for  him,  that  color  and  form 
failed  to  embody  his  conceptions.  His  imiform  refusal 
to  attempt  the  representation  of  Christ,  a  far  too  com- 
mon attempt  in  Italian  Art,  undoubtedly  rested  upon 
this  fact.  It  was  not  because  his  intensely  spiritual 
mind  had  a  less  adequate  idea  of  the  Divine-Man,  than 
that  which  floated  before  the  Catholic  imagination,  but 


82  THE    TRUE    iXATUUE    OF    THE    BEAUTIFUL, 

because  there  beamed  upon  his  ethereal  vision,  a  form 
of  such  high  and  awful  beauty  as  could  not  be  put  upon 
a  material  canvas.  It  was  because  he  saw  so  much 
that  he  did  so  little. 

]?nt,  Gentlemen,  there  is  a  still  more  practical  and  im- 
portant side  to  this  whole  subject.  The  department  of 
Art  sustains  a  relation  to  the  growth  and  development 
of  the  human  mind,  and  human  society.  Like  all  other 
departments  of  human  effort,  it  should  therefore  be  sub- 
servient to  the  great  moral  end  of  human  existence,  and 
if  there  were  no  other  alternative,  it  would  be  better  that 
the  aesthetic  nature,  and  the  whole  department  of  Art, 
and  the  whole  wide  realm  of  the  Beautiful,  should  be 
armihilated,  than  that  they  should  continue  to  exist  at 
the  expense  of  the  intellectual  and  moral,  of  the  True 
and  the  Good.  We  are  not  at  all  driven  to  the  alterna- 
tive, if  there  be  truth  in  the  general  theory  that  has  been 
presented,  but  if  we  were,  we  acknowledge  boldly  that  we 
would  side  ^^dth  the  Puritan  iconoclast  and  dash  into 
atoms  the  Apollo  Belvidere  itself.  Rather  than  that  the 
department  of  Art  should  annihilate  Philosophy  and  Re- 
ligion ;  rather  than  that  an  enervate  beauty  should  eat 
out  manly  strength  and  severe  virtue  from  character ; 
rather  than  that  a  sensualizing  process  should  be  inti'o- 
duced  into  the  very  heart  of  society,  though  it  were  as 
beautiful  as  an  opium  dream ;  we  would  see  the  element 
struck  out  of  existence,  and  man  and  the  universe  be  left 
as  bald  and  bare  as  granite.  We  honor  therefore,  that 
trait  in  our  ancestors,  (so  often  charged  uj)on  them  as  a 
radical  defect  in  nature,  and  so  often  tacitly  admitted  as 
such  even  by  some  of  their  descendants),  which  made 
them  afraid  of  Fine  Art;  afraid  of  music  and  painting 
and  sculpture  and  poetry.  They  dreaded  the  form,  but 
had  no  dread  of  the  substance,  and  therefore  were  the  mosi 


AND  ITS  RELATION  TO  CULTURE. 


33 


philosophic  of  men.  They  dreaded  the  material,  but  had 
no  dread  of  the  ideal,  and  therefore  were  the  most  intel- 
lectual of  men.  They  dreaded  the  sensuous,  but  had  no 
dread  of  the  spiritual,  and  therefore  were  the  most  reli- 
gious of  men.  The  Pm-itan  nature  owed  but  little, 
comparatively  speaking,  to  aesthetic  culture.  It  was  not 
drawn  upon  and  drawn  out,  as  some  natures  have  been, 
by  Literature  and  Art,  for  in  the  plan  of  Providence  its 
mission  was  active  rather  than  contemplative ;  but  we 
do  not  hesitate  to  say,  that  the  contents  and  genius  were 
there,  and  that  even  on  the  side  of  the  imagination,  that 
jiature,  had  it  been  unfolded  in  this  direction,  would 
have  left  a  school  and  a  style  of  Art,  using  the  term  in 
its  widest  acceptation,  second  to  none.  And  as  it  is,  we 
see  its  legitimate  tendency  and  influence  in  the  poetry 
of  Milton.  The  Miltonic  style  of  Art  is  essentially  the 
Puritan  Art ;  beautiful  only  as  it  is  severe  and  grand  ;  the 
Beautiful  superinduced  upon  the  True  and  the  Holy. 

Gentlemen'  : 

In  the  opening  of  my  discourse,  I  alluded  to  the  fact, 
that  the  style  of  civilization  and  culture  peculiar  to  the 
individual  or  the  nation  is  determined  by  the  theory, 
which  is  consciously  or  unconsciously  assumed,  of  the 
nature  and  relative  position  of  the  Beautiful;  and  at  tjie 
close  of  it,  I  would  call  your  attention  to  it  again.  My 
aim  is  not  iconoclastic.  My  aim,  in  all  that  I  have  said, 
has  been,  not  to  destroy  or  in  the  least  to  disparage  the 
department  of  Aesthetics,  but  to  establish  and  recommend 
a  high  and  strict  and  |)liiloKophic  theory  of  it,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  putting  it  in  its  right  place  in  the  encyclopaedia, 
and  thus  of  promoting  its  own  true  growth,  and  what  is 
of  still  more  importance,  the  growth  of  the  human  mind. 
Called  upon  to  address  scholars,  I  desire  to  do  something 


r 


34        THE  TRUE  NATURE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL, 

that  will  contribiite  to  hi^h-toncd  culture,  hii2;li-toned 
thinking,  and  high-toned  character.  And  I  know  of  no 
better  way,  on  such  an  occasion  as  the  present,  than  to 
bring  out  distinctly  before  the  youthful  and  recipient 
student,  a  philosophic,  precise,  and  lofty,  theory  in  regard 
to  that  whole  department  of  Art,  so  fascinating  to  the 
young  mind  and  so  liable  to  be  employed  to  excess  by  it. 
Depend  upon  it,  Gentlemen,  the  older  you  grow  and  the 
/riper  scholars  you  become,  the  more  exact  will  be  your 
tastes  and  the  more  austere  will  be  your  literary  sympa- 
thies. You  will  come  to  see  more  and  more  clearly,  that 
neither  music,  nor  painting,  nor  sculpture,  nor  architecture, 
nor  poetry,  can  properly  be  made  the  main  instrument 
of  human  development ;  that  the  human  intellect  and 
heart  demand  ultimately  a  "  manlier  diet ; "  that  you 
must  become  powerful  minds  and  powerful  men,  mainly 
through  the  culture  that  comes  from  Science  and  Reli- 
gion. You  will  never,  indeed,  lose  your  relish  for  the 
Beautiful ;  on  the  contrary,  you  ^vill  have  a  keener  and  a 
nicer  sense  for  it,  and  for  all  that  is  based  upon  it;  but 
you  will  find  a  declining  interest  in  its  lower  forms.  — 
Schools  of  Poetry  and  of  Art  that  once  pleased  you,  will 
become  insipid,  and  perhaps  offensive,  to  your  purer 
taste,  your  more  purged  eye,  your  more  rational  imagina- 
tion. There  will  be  fewer  and  fewer  works  in  the  aes- 
thetic sphere  that  wall  throw  a  spell  and  work  a  charm, 
while  the  deep  and  central  truths  of  Philosophy  and 
Religion  will  di'aw,  ever  draw,  your  whole  being  to  them- 
selves, as  the  moon  draws  the  sea. 

And  in  this  way,  you  will  be  fitted  to  do  the  proper 
work  of  educated  men  in  the  midst  of  society.  1  have 
alluded  to  the  downward  movement,  the  uniform  decay, 
of  the  ancient  civilizations.  History  teaches  one  plain 
and  mournful  lesson ;  that  man  cannot  safely  be  left  to 


AND    ITS    RELATION    TO    CULTURE.  35 

his  luxurious  tendencies,  be  they  of  the  sense  or  the  soul, 
There  must  be  austerity  somewhere.  There  must  be  a 
strong  head  and  a  sound  heart  somewhere.  And  where 
ought  we  to  look  for  these  but  in  the  educated  class  ?  In 
whom,  if  not  in  these,  ought  we  to  find  that  theory  of 
education,  that  style  of  culture,  and  that  tone  of  intellect, 
which  will  right  up  society  when  it  is  sinking  down  into 
luxury,  or  hold  it  where  it  is  if  it  is  already  upright  and 
austere  ?  Educated  men,  amid  the  currents  and  in  the 
general  drift  of  society,  ought  to  discharge  the  function 
of  a  warp  and  anchor.  They,  of  all  men,  ought  to  be 
characterized  by  strength.  And  especially  do  our  own 
age  and  country  need  this  style  of  culture.  Exposed  as 
the  national  mind  is  to  a  luxurious  civilization ;  as 
imminently  exposed  as  Nineveh  or  Rome  ever  were ;  the 
Beautiful  is  by  no  means  the  main  idea  by  which  it  j 
should  be  educated  and  moulded.  As  in  the  Prome- 
theus, none  but  the  demi-gods  Strength  and  Force  can 
chain  the  Titan.  Our  task,  gentlemen,  as  men  of  cul-  ^ 
ture,  and  as  men  who  are  to  determine  the  prevailing 
type  of  culture,  is  both  in  theory  and  practice  to  subject 
the  Form  to  the  Substance  ;  to  bring  the  Beautiful  under 
the  problem  of  the  True  and  the  Good.  Our  task,  as 
descendants  of  an  austere  ancestry,  as  partakers  in  a 
severe  nationality,  is  to  retain  the  strict,  heroic,  intellec- 
tual, and  religious  spirit  of  the  Puritan  and  the  Pilgrim, 
in  these  forms  of  an  advancing  civilization.  In  order  to 
this  ;  in  order  that  the  sensuously  and  luxuriously  Beauti- 
ful may  not  be  too  much  for  us ;  strength  and  reserve  are 
needed  in  the  cultivated  classes.  They  must  be  reticent, 
and,  like  the  sculptor,  chisel  and  re-chisel,  until  they  cut 
ofl'aiid  cut  down  to  a  sirni)le  st.'itnes(|ue  beauty,  in  Ai-t 
and  in  Literature,  in  Religion  and  in  Life. 


THE  INFLUENCE  AND  J^IETIIOD  OF  ENGLISH 

STUDIES.* 


That  the  philological  structure  and  history  of  the 
English  language  is  a  branch  of  investigation  very  greatly 
neglected  by  all  to  whom  this  tongue  is  vernacular,  will 
hardly  be  questioned.  If  one  examines  the  public  or  pri- 
vate libraries  of  this  country,  he  finds  them  better  supplied 
with  works  in  almost  every  other  department  of  knowl- 
edge, than  with  those  that  relate  to  the  origin  and  early 
progress  of  the  literature  of  the  Englishman  and  Anglo- 
American,  llow  little  is  known  of  the  lexicogra])hical 
labors  of  Junius,  Lye,  and  Spelman  ;  of  the  critical  re- 
searches of  Ilcarne,  llitson,  Pinkerton,  Tyrwhitt,  Wright, 
and  Price  ;  and  even  of  the  histories  of  Warton,  and  Ellis. 
The  publications  of  the  Camden  and  Percy  societies  rarely 
make  their  way  over  the  Atlantic.  The  small  but  increas- 
ing stock  of  Anglo-Saxon  literature,  well  edited  b}'  schol- 
ars like  Conybeare,  Thorpe,  Posworth,  Ivcmble,  and  Car- 
dale,  and  still  more,  the  Anglo-Norman  literature  brought 
to  light  by  Michel  and  other  French  scholars,  is  a  ten-a 
incognita  to  many  whose  explorations  in  classical  and 
oriental  regions  have  been  extensive  and  accurate.  Not- 
withstanding the  genial  and  thorough  criticism  of  Cole- 
ridge, llazlitt,  and  Schlegcl,  it  can  hardly  be  aflirmed  that 

*   Reprinted  from  the  Bibliotheca  Sacra,  April,  1856. 


r 


3S  TTIE   INFLUENCE    AND    METHOD 

the  literature  of  the  Elizabethan  era  has  made  that  pro- 
found impression  upon  the  thinking  and  composition  of 
the  present  age  which  its  intrinsic  merits  entitle  it  to. 
That  heart}^  and  idiomatic,  yet  flowing  and  graceful,  style 
o°f  English,  which  is  one  result  of  the  study  of  this  ])or- 
tion  of  the  lano-uage  and  literature,  is  confined  to  a  com- 
paratively  small  circle  of  writers.  The  conimou  English 
diction  of  the  day,  has  heen  formed  more  by  the  age  of 
Queen  Anne,  than  by  that  of  Shakspeare  and  Bacon. 
The  orator,  reviewer,  and  paragraphist,  puts  on  the 
"  learned  sock,"  not  of  Jonson  the  dramatist,  but  of 
Johnson  the  moralist,  and  the  pompous  and  measured 
diction  of  Gibbon  is  preferred  to  the  more  natural  and 
flexible,  but  not  less  flnished  and  musical  phrase  of 
Hooker. 

The  critical  study  of  the  English  language  and  litera- 
ture, as  a  special  discipline  in  the  general  system  of 
modern  education,  is  consequent]}^  a  topic  that  needs  to  be 
frequently  and  earnestly  discussed,  in  order  that  a  pro|)er 
interest  may  exist  in  reference  to  it.  The  readers  of  this 
journal  will  bear  testimony,  that,  from  time  to  time, 
attention  has  been  directed  to  this  department  of  inquiry; 
and  it  is  in  the  line  of  these  preceding  efforts  that  we 
would  labor,  and  move  forward. 

The  Eno^lish  lano-uao-e  is  the  language  into  which  we 
are  born,  and  the  English  literature  is  the  literature  in 
which  we  are  brought  up.  From  the  beginning  of  our 
existence,  onward,  through  all  the  several  ages  of  life,  and 
through  all  the  multiplied  experiences  of  head  and  heart, 
we  are  continually  receiving  and  propagating  that  fine  and 
volatile  influence  which  emanates  from  the  national  lan- 
guage and  literature,  upon  every  individual  of  the  nation. 
A  literature,  therefore,  in  which  we  have  an  interest  by 
virtue  of  our  very  birth  and  origin,  and  which  penetrates 


OF   ENGLISH    STUDIES.  39 

SO  pervasively  our  daily  life,  has  claims  npon  our  best 
powers,  ill  order  that  we  may  come  to  apprehend,  with  a 
distinct  consciousness,  its  jpeculiar  character  and  worth, 
and  thereby  experience  more  and  more  of  its  sjpecifiG  in- 
Vfluences  and  impressions.  For  the  objection  that  meets 
lis,  whenever  we  recommend  the  analytic  study  of  a  ver- 
nacular tongue,  viz.  that  we  are  recommending  a  super- 
fluity, inasmuch  as  tlie  mother  tongue  is  imbibed  with 
the  mother's  milk,  vanishes  the  moment  we  remember 
that  the  purpose  of  study,  in  nearly  all  instances,  is  to 
substitute  a  clear  knowledge  for  an  obscure  one.  There  is 
meaning  and  truth  in  the  Platonic  dictum,  that  learnino; 
is  reminding.  One  of  the  principal  processes  in  mental 
cultivation  consists  in  acquiring  a  distinct  perception  of 
that  by  which  we  are  spontaneously,  and  therefore  unre- 
flectingly, influenced  or  actuated.  What  the  common 
mind  sees  as  in  a  glass  darkly,  the  educated  mind  sees 
face  to  face.  The  most  of  men  are  the  creatures  of  the 
moulding  and  shaping  ideas  that  are  mercifully  inlaid  in 
tlieir  mental  constitution,  and  of  those  institutions  and 
permanent  circumstances  amidst  which  they  live ;"  and, 
inasmuch  as  these  ideas  are  ideas  of  reason,  and  these  in- 
stitutions and  permanent  circumstances  are  arrangements 
of  divine  providence,  no  practical  injury  results  to  the  in- 
dividual, even  when  he  surrenders  himself  to  their  influ- 
ence and  actuation,  without  phih)sopliic  reflection  upon 
their  nature  and  qualities.  The  citizen,  for  example,  will 
suffer  no  injury,  wlio  yields  himself  up  most  implicitly 
and  obediently,  to  the  moral  or  the  civil  law,  without 
analyzing  the  contents  of  this  i(l(;a,  or  becoming  mctaphy- 
sically  aware  of  its  vast  implication.  Let  him  allow  the 
jiiinciplc  and  spirit  of  law  to  take  possession  of  his  whole 
being,  and  sull'ei-  all  his  faculties  and  energies  to  be 
absorbed  in  this  august  and  beneficent  power,  and  he  wil 


40  TIIK    INFLUKNCE    AND   METHOD 

experience  no  detriment,  intellectually  or  morally,  even 
thougli  he  reflects  but  little  upon  the  nature  of  the  agen- 
cies by  which  he  is  moulded.  In  like  manner,  the  indi- 
vidual may  surrender  himself  to  the  influence  of  the 
literature  and  civilization  of  the  nation  to  "which  he 
belongs,  and,  if  these  be  truthful  and  sound,  his  compara- 
tive unacquaintauce  with  what  is  constantly  pressing 
upon  him,  and  shaping  and  forming  him,  on  all  sides, 
will  not  prevent  his  being  rightly  shaped  and  formed. 
He  is  under  and  within  a  divine  constitution,  and, 
whether  consciously  or  unconsciously,  must  feel  its  power, 
and  receive  its  influence.  But  while  this  is  said,  it  must 
not  be  inferred  that  pJiilosoj)JiiG  reflection  upon  that 
which  exerts  an  influence  upon  us,  whether  we  will  or 
not,  is  of  no  worth ;  that  analytical  study  into  the  nature 
and  qualities  of  that  w^hich  actuates  us,  whether  we  think 
or  not,  is  superfluous  and  unnecessary.  Powerful  as  ideas, 
principles,  and  institutions  are,  even  in  relation  to  the 
unthinking  man  ;  and  at  times,  for  instance  in  political 
revolutions,  they  are  as  powerful  as  fire  in  gunpowder,  and 
accompanied  wnth  nearl}^  as  little  distinct  knowledge ; 
they  yet  receive  a  vast  accession  of  power,  when  their 
operancy  is  accompanied  with  the  clear  intuitions  of  rea- 
son, and  the  lucid  perceptions  of  self-consciousness. 

These  remarks  upon  the  general  relation  of  analytic 
study  and  philosophic  reflection  to  that  which  is  innate  in 
our  mental  constitution,  or  intrinsic  to  those  permanent 
circumstances  whicli  exert  a  constant  and  unperceived  in- 
fluence upon  us,  independent  of  our  reflection,  apply  with 
full  force  to  subjects  so  close  to  us,  and  influences  so  spon- 
taneous and  irresistible,  as  those  of  our  own  mother 
tongue  and  our  own  native  literature.  For  although  none 
/^can  help  speaking  their  vernacular,  and  feeling  more  or 
less  of  the  influence  of  the  literature  embodied  in  it,  yet 


OF   ENGLISH   STUDIES.  "  41 

only  those  few  feel  its  selectest  influence  and  drink  in  its 
most  essential  spirit,  who  pass  beyond  the  every-day  use 
of  the  language  to  the  critical  and  philological  study  of  it. 
It  is  indeed  true,  that,  whether  the  Englishman  or  the 
Ano-lo-American  has  studied  his  national  language  and 
literatnre,  or  not,  he  has,  nevertheless,  been  so  moulded 
and  affected  by  it,  that,  if  those  elements  in  his  culture 
which  have  come  in  from  this  source,  should  be  with- 
drawn, it  would  lose  its  most  vital  if  not  its  finest  consti- 
tuent ;  still  he  cannot  feel,  and  he  has  not  felt,  the 
freshest,  heartiest,  healthiest,  and  most  eifective  influence 
from  this  source,  unless,  by  study  and  reflection,  he  has 
made  himself  unusuall}'  conscious  of  the  intense  power 
of  tlie  En<>'lish  laniruaij-e,  and  the  vast  wealth  of  the 
English  literature.  13ut  in  order  to  this  intimate  acquaint- 
ance, something  more  is  needed  than  that  easy  and  passive 
j)erusal  of  the  current  literature  of  the  present  period, 
which,  in  the  case  of  one's  native  language  and  literature, 
so  often  passes  for  study.  The  full  power  of  the  English 
language  cannot  be  adequately  apprehended  short  of  an 
acquaintance  with  it  in  all  the  periods  of  its  history.  The 
life  of  a  language,  like  the  soul  of  a  body,  is  all  in  every 
part ;  and  its  highest  intensity  must  therefore  be  sought 
for  by  a  laborious  and  patient  study  of  the  language, 
back,  through   all  its  change  and  growth,  to  the  lowest 

I'Oot. 

There  is  a  special  reason  for  this  close  and  minute 
study  of  our  vernacidar,  founded  on  the  fact  that,  speak- 
ing it,  and  writing  it,  and  thinking  in  it,  as  we  do  con- 
tinually, we  unavoidably  acquire  a  moderate  knowledge  of 
it,  which  we  are  too  willing  to  regard  as  pliilological  and 
thorougli.  In  Ihocaseof  a  foiXMgn  tongue,  we  arc  com- 
[telled  to  the  lexicon  and  the  grammar,  because  we  can- 
not iLixderatand  it  without  such  study  ;  and  iiencc  we  in- 


42  THE   INFLUENCE   AND   METUOD 

evitably  acquire,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  a  critical 
knowledire  of  it.  But  it  is  not  so  in  the  case  of  our  own 
languag-e.  The  majority  of  words  we  have  some  ac- 
quaintance with,  without  any  study  on  our  part.  It  is 
true  that  this  acquaintance  is  not  close  and  accurate,  like 
tluit  wliich  springs  from  etymological  and  careful  analy- 
sis ;  but  it  is  sufficient  for  all  the  purposes  of  practical 
life,  and  of  an  easy,  passive  perusal  of  books. 

The  only  remedy  for  this  superlicial  knowledge  is  to  be 
found  in  the  study  of  the  language  in  all  its  periods,  and 
especiall}'^  in  those  elder  forms  which  have  passed  out  of 
use,  and  which,  consequently,  sustain  sometiiing  of  the 
relation  of  a  foreign  tongue  to  the  modern  Englishman. 
Not  that  these  earlier  forms  are  really  alien  to  us,  like 
the  French  or  the  Latin  tongues,  for  they  still  have  an 
existence  in  the  heart  and  pith  of  the  English  of  the 
present  day ;  but  they  require,  in  order  to  their  being 
miderstood  by  the  modern  reader,  a  minute  plu'lological 
study,  like  that  expended  upon  the- Greek  and  Latin, 
which  brings  the  mind  into  close  and  invigorating  contact 
with  them.  For,  to  carefully  trace  a  word,  through  its 
whole  history,  up  to  the  root  from  wliich  its  true  force 
and  significance  are,  in  the  majority  of  instances,  derived, 
is  the  only  sure  M^ay  of  imbuing  the  mind  with  the  spirit 
of  a  language.  By  this  slow  analysis,  the  power  of  the 
word  is  brought  out  and  felt. 

•'  The  same  remarks  hold  true  respecting  the  scope  and 
riches  of  our  national  literature.  He  who  is  conversant 
with  it  in  only  one  or  two  of  its  periods,  can  have  but  a 
meagre  conception  of  its  opulence.  The  national  mind 
finds  a  full  expression  only  in  tlie  totality  of  the  national 
literature.  Like  the  individual  mind,  it  passes  through 
great  varieties  of  being;  through  a  great  multiplicity  of 
moods ;    through   various   stages   of    development ;    and 


OF   ENGLISH    STUDIES.  43 

therefore  its  complete  expression  and  manifestation  must 
be  sought  for  in  the  tohole  literature  to  which  it  has  given 
origin.  It  often  happens  that  the  earlier  literature  of  a 
people  contains  elements  not  to  be  met  with  in  any  of  the 
after  periods  of  its  history.  The  national  mind  often 
shows  a  phase,  in  some  one  particular  period,  which  cen- 
turies of  existence  would  not  bring  round  again.  Should 
the  English  nation,  for  example,  continue  in  existence, 
and  the  English  mind  continue  to  undergo  change  and 
development  until  the  end  of  time,  it  is  not  probable  that 
another  period  would  occur  in  its  history,  in  which  the 
drama  would  reach  such  a  height  of  life  and  power,  and 
such  a  breadth  and  depth  of  passion,  as  characterize  the 
Elizabethan  drama.  And  can  we  ever  expect  the  re-ap- 
pearance of  the  fresh,  hale,  and  lifesome  spirit  of  "  merrie 
England,"  as  it  appears  in  Chaucer  'I  The  beautiful  van- 
ishes and  returns  not  ae^ain  in  the  same  form.  Each  a^e 
has  its  own  excellences  ;  and  not  until  we  have  passed  all 
the  ages  in  review,  can  we  know  and  feel  the  endless 
variety  and  opulence  of  a  national  mind, 

Witli  these  general  remarks  upon  tlie  neglect,  and  tlie 
importance  of  tlie  philological  study  of  the  English  lan- 
guage and  literature,  we  proceed  to  consider  the  quality 
of  the  influence  which  flows  from  this  particular  branch 
of  discipline,  and  to  indicate  the  best  method  of  pursuing 
it. 

I.  The  first  effect  of  a  thorough  acquaintance  M'ith 
English  literature,  is  the  vimfication  of  the  culture  that 
jioiOH  into  the  modern  mind  from  the  classic  world^  and 
the  preventicm,  thereby,  of  a  dry  and  artificial  classical- 
ity.  This  undoubtedly  was  the  purpose  aimed  at,  by  those 
who  constructed  the  modern  system  of  education.  A 
department  of  instruction  in  the  English  language  and 
literature   is  established    in    ;ill    lhu>c    institutions   which 


44  THE   INFLUENCE   AND    METHOD 

propose  to  impart  a  symmetrical  and  complete  discipline, 
in  order  that  the  youthful  student,  while  in  the  liexile 
process  of  education,  may  be  in  communication  with  the 
modern  mind  and  the  modern  woi'ld,  as  well  as  with  the 
ancient  mind  and  the  classic  world.  Those  who  planned 
that  system  of  liberal  instruction  by  which  the  modern 
scholar  is  ti'ained  up,  selected  the  vernacular  tongue  of 
the  pupil  himself,  as  one  of  the  concurrent  branches  of 
knowledge  to  be  pursued  in  order  to  a  harmonious  mental 
development,  because  it  fui-nishes  an  element  needed  in 
modern  culture,  and  derivable  from  no  other  source. 
They  "yoked,"  as  has  been  said  of  the  education  of  Leib- 
nitz, "  all  the  sciences  abreast,"  that  the  mind  might  be 
subjected  to  the  widest  possible  intellectual  influence, 
and,  by  binding  the  ancient  and  the  modern  world  to- 
gether, threw  in  upon  the  modern  scholar  the  combined 
influence  of  both. 

The  difference  between  the  ancient  and  the  modern 
mind  is  exhibited  in  the  following  extract  from  Coleridge, 
with  remarkable  comprehensiveness  and  conciseness. 
"  The  Greeks,"  he  says,  "  idolized  the  finite,  and  therefore 
were  the  masters  of  all  grace,  elegance,  proportion,  fancy, 
dignity,  majesty  ;  of  whatever  in  short,  is  capable  of  being 
definitely  conveyed  by  defined  forms  or  thoughts  ;  the 
moderns  revere  the  infinite,  and  affect  the  indefinite  as  a 
vehicle  of  the  infinite  ;  hence  their  passions,  their  obscure 
hopes  and  fears,  their  wandering  through  the  unknown, 
their  grander  moral  feelings,  their  more  august  conception 
of  man  as  man,  their  future  rather  than  their  past,  in  a 
word,  their  sublimity."  *  But  this  native  difference  has 
been  still  more  increased  by  the  influence  which  Chris- 
tianity has  exerted  upon  the  modern  world,  and  the  new 

*  Works,  Vol.  IV.,  p.  29.  Harper's  Ed. 


OF   ENGLISH    STUDIES.  45 

species  of  development  that  has  been  introdnced  thereby. 
Consequently  it  is  onh^  a  particnlar  and  peenliar  element 
of  culture,  and  not  the  entire  culture  itself,  which  the 
modern  is  to  derive  from  the  cultivated  pagan.  It  is  the 
form  only,  and  not  the  matter,  of  literature,  that  is  to  be 
furnished  by  the  Greek  and  Roman.  The  Christian 
world  cannot  go  back  to  the  pagan  for  ideas  and  thoughts. 
The  humblest  modern  mind  that  lives  within  the  pale  of 
revelation,  moves  in  a  sphere  of  thought  and  feeling 
infinitely  transcending  that  of  the  loftiest  heathen  sage. 
It  is  not,  therefore,  for  infonnation  and  for  living  force, 
that  the  modern  devotes  himself,  as  he  has  ever  since  the 
revival  of  classical  learning,  to  the  study  of  the  beautiful 
models  of  Greece  and  Rome.  The  function  of  classical 
discipline  is  aesthetic. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  modern  mind  is  full  of  matter, 
and  overfull  of  force.  It  is  not  naturally  master  of  it- 
self or  its  materials.  Its  vitality  and  energy  require  di- 
rection and  a  serene  flow.  The  Goth  needs  to  become 
an  artist.  Hence  the  cooperation  of  the  Pagan  with  the 
Christian  in  the  process  of  modern  education  ;  a  coopei-jv 
tion  that  will  be  beneficial,  only  so  long  as  the  former  is 
confined  to  its  proper  function  of  refinement,  and  justifi- 
able, only  in  proportion  as  the  latter  does  not  permit  its 
vigor  and  vitality  to  be  killed  out  by  the  seductive  grace 
of  the  former.  Upon  the  due  projjortiun  and  the  right 
mingling  of  the  wsfhetic  element  derived  from  clasdvcd  ^ 
literature^  with  the  j'hilosojjhical  and  theological  elements 
derived  from  the  world  of  modern  Christian  thought, 
d(q>end  the  harmony  a)ul 2>erfection  of  modern  education. 
Fi^r  if  the  form  and  the  giace  become  ])rcd<)minant  to  the 
neglect  (;f  the  idea  and  the  thouglit,  the  vitality  and  the 
force,  culture  becomes  foi-mal,  artilicinl,  and  spiritless. 
It  will  not  even  make  the  imi)res8ion  of  the  model  itself, 


4:6  THE   INFLUENCE   AND   METHOD 

to  which  it  has  heeii  so  servile.  It  M^ill  exhibit  the  sym- 
metry,  and  finish,  and  ele^-ance  of  the  works  of  the  Gre- 
cian and  Roman  mind,  in  the  manner  of  a  mere  copyist, 
and  with  none  of  the  genuine  classic  feeling  and  spirit. 
The  peculiar  vigor  and  energy  which  characterize  modern 
literature,  and  which  must  characterize  it,  in  order  that 
it  may  produce  a  permanent  impression  upon  the  modern 
mind,  will  he  wanting  in  the  productions  of  such  an  un- 
vivified  classicality,  and  they  will  be  out  of  place  in  the 
midst  of  all  the  motion  and  energy  of  the  modern  world. 
For  proof  of  this,  we  need  only  look  at  those  periods  in 
the  history  of  literature,  which  were  marked  by  an  exclu- 
sive devotion  to  classical  studies,  to  the  neij-lect  of  modern 
thought.  The  eighteenth  century  was  a  pci'iod  in  English 
literary  history  characterized  by  excessive  classicism. 
The  elder  literature  of  England  was  gi-eatly  neglected 
and  undervalued,  by  the  literary  men  of  this  period.* 
The  English  mind  during  this  century  having  almost  no 
communication  with  the  modern  European  mind,  con- 
tented itself  with  a  by  no  means  genial  and  reproductive, 
but  servile  and  mechanical,  study  of  Greek  and  Roman 
models.  Much  is  said  of  the  influence  of  French  models, 
and  canons  of  criticism,  upon  this  period  in  English  liter- 
ary history;  but  what  were  the  French  models  tliem- 
selves,  but  cold  copies  of  the  classic  age,  with  no  modern 

*  The  estimate  in  which  Shakspeare  was  held  by  a  mind  like  David 
Hume,  is  an  example  in  point.  The  criticisms  of  Johnson,  meritorious 
as  his  services  in  other  respects  were  in  regard  to  the  earlier  English 
literature,  display  little  profound  sympathy  with  the  elder  English 
spirit,  as  one  feels  on  passing  from  them  to  the  English  and  German 
criticism  of  the  present  century.  The  endeavor  of  Addison,  in  the 
Spectator,  to  awaken  an  interest  in  Milton  and  the  Old  Ballads,  though 
more  appreciative  an  1  genial  than  that  of  any  other  critic  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  was  on  the  whole  a  failure,  so  far  as  the  popular  mind 
of  that  day  is  concerned. 


OF   ENGLISH    STUDIES.  47 

new-born  life  in  them ;  and  what  were  the  canons  of 
criticism  but  the  substantially  correct  rules  of  ancient  art 
tnechamcaUy  applied,  and  that  too  under  totally  different 
circumstances,  and  amidst  entirely  foreign  relations  ?  For 
as  Schiller  truly  remarks:  "The  French,  wholly  misap- 
])rehending  the  sjnrit  of  the  ancients,  introduced  upon 
the  stage  a  unity  of  place  and  time,  according  to  the 
cornnion  emjnrical  sense  of  the  ter'ins,  as  if  in  the  drama 
there  could  be  any  other  place  than  mere  ideal  space, 
and  an}^  other  time  than  the  mere  progress  and  sequence 
of  the  action."  * 

The  truth  is,  the  literary  men  of  such  periods  started 
from  the  wrong  point  of  departure.  Instead  of  gener- 
ating within  themselves  the  stuff  and  material  of  litera- 
tui'e,  and  employing  classical  culture  as  a  formal  or  in- 
strumental agency,  in  order  to  the  symmetrical  and 
linished  presentment  of  it,  they  isolated  themselves  from 
the  great  process  and  movement  of  modern  thought, 
violently  threw  themselves  back  into  the  ante-christian 
world,  and  sought  the  matter,  where  they  should  have 
souglit  only  the  form,  of  literature.  The  result  ought  not 
to  surprise  us.  For  a  genuine  literature,  one  that  is  des- 
tined to  live  in  otlier  ages,  and  to  impress  other  nations 
can  originate  only  in  the  midst  of  present  actual  realities  ; 
only  in  the  stir  and  throng  of  daily  interests  and  feelings ; 
only  in  the  most  intense  and  concentrated  nationality. 
The  tiaining,  the  elaboration,  the  stimulation,  may  be 
brought  from  foreign  climes,  and  from  all  ages,  but  the 
central  root  must  grow  up  out  of  native  soil.  All  the 
modern  endeavors  to  revive  the  l*agan  cult  ire  have  failed, 
because  tliey  were  attempts  to  find  the  principle  and  sub- 
Gtance  of  literature  in  a  stage  of  hunuin  history  that  haa 

*  Uclier  den  Gebraiich  deb  ChiJra  in  der  TragiJdie. 


48  TTIK    INFLUENCK    AND    ISLETnOD 

Imd  its  day,  find  -which  cannot,  therefore,  furnish  any- 
thing beyond  the  artistic  and  the  formal.  A  return  to 
the  culture  and  poetic  polytheism  of  the  classic  world, 
such  as  Shelley  strove  for,  and  Schiller  yearns  after  in  his 
poem  entitled.  Die  Gutter  Griecheulands,  would  be  as 
impossible  and  irrational,  as  would  be  the  attempt  tore- 
construct  the  fauna,  or  reanimate  the  flora,  of  the  primi- 
tive geological  periods.* 

The  proper  method  of  counteracting  the  tendency  to 
formalism,  which  seems  to  be  as  natnral  in  literature  as 
it  is  in  morals,  is,  not  to  give  np  the  study  of  the  great 
ancient  masters  and  models  of  form,  but,  along  with  this 
studv,  and  coincident  with  it,  to  pursue  with  equal  thor- 
oughness and  diligence,  the  study  of  modern  literature. 
And  inasmuch  as,  in  most  instances,  a  selection  must  be 
made  from  the  several  literatures  that  are  comprised 
within  this  denomination,  there  are  strono;  reasons  for  the 
selection  of  that  of  Eno-land. 
/-  In  the  first  place,  the  English  literature  is  the  most 
nniversal  and  generic  in  its  character  of  the  literatures  of 
modern  Europe.  It  may  be  regarded  as  the  one,  among 
them  all,  in  which  the  distinctive  peculiarities  of  the 
modern  mind  have  found  the  most  full  and  forcible  ex- 
pression. For  the  English  race  itself  is  the  most  com- 
prehensive of  any.  It  is  a  mixture  and  cross  of  all  the 
best  of  the  modern  stocks.  At  the  bottom  of  it  lies  the 
Celtic,  a  portion  of  that  great  Scythian  people  which  was 
the  first  to  move  westward  from  Central  Asia,  the  cradle 
and  birthplace  of  the  human  family.     Judging  from  the 

*  The  history  of  the  efforts  of  the  New  Platonics  to  re\ive  Pag-anism 
in  its  religious  aspects  is  equally  instructive  with  these  attempts  to  re- 
vive it  in  its  literary  i^haso,  and  ought  to  be  pondered  by  that  circle  of 
religionists,  of  the  present  day,  who  seera  to  be  repeating  that  futile 
endeavor. 


OF   ENGLISH   STUDIES.  49 

relics  of  it,  still  to  be  found  amoncj  the  mountains  of 
Wales,  the  highlands  of  Scotland,  the  bleak  and  unculti- 
vated district  of  Britanny  in  France,  and  in  the  eloquent 
and  impetuous  Irishman,  it  was  a  race  eminently  fitted  to 
constitute  the  ground- work  of  a  national  character.  Bold, 
fearless,  and  possessing  an  indomitable  love  of  freedom, 
as  the  Commentaries  of  Caesar  evidence;  the  Briton  still 
lives  in  the  modern  Englishman ;  and,  by  a  singular  yet 
natural  coincidence,  gives  his  name  to  England  itself, 
whenever  the  elements  of  power  and  empire  are  sought 
to  be  made  prominent.  For  they  are  '''■Britons  who 
never  will  be  slaves  ;  "  and  it  is  Britannia  who 

needs  no  bulwark, 
No  tower  along  the  steep, 
Whose  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-wave. 
Whose  home  is  on  the  deep. 

Into  tliis  living  and  solid  root  was  then  grafted  one  of  the 
very  finest  shoots  of  the  great  Germanic  race — the  Anglo- 
Saxon.  The  second  wave  of  Asiatic  emigration  thus 
rolled  over  upon  the  first,  and  mingled  with  it.  Widely- 
differing  national  characteristics,  originating  in  the  same 
centre  of  the  world,  but  separated  by  centuries  of  rude 
and  savage,  yet  real  and  thorough  development  during  the 
various  fortunes  of  emigration  and  warfare,  of  conflict 
with  man  and  with  material  nature,  were  thus  commingled 
in  the  Saxonized  Briton.  And,  lastly,  into  the  nation  and 
character  thus  formed,  an  infusion  of  the  Homan  nature 
was  introduced  by  the  invasion  and  armed  occupancy  of 
the  land  by  the  Normans. 

Constituted  in  this  manner,  the  English  mind  became 
an  exceedingly  com[)rehensive  one.  Containing  the  quali- 
ties and  characteristics  of  all  the  principal  races  tliat  have 
made  Europe  their  homo,  with  the  exception  of  the  Scla- 


3 


50  THE    INFLUKNCE    AND    MKTIIOD 

vonic,  a  race  which,  perhaps,  is  to  play  an  important  part 
in  the  future  history'  of  the  world,  l)nt  which,  as  yet,  has 
had  no  development,  and,  until  recently,  has  been  a  mere 
cipher  in  European  history — containing,  we  say,  such 
widely-different  and  yet  substantial  characteristics,  tiie 
English  mind  is  the  most  adequate  representative  of  the 
Universal-European  or  Modern  Mind. 

But,  in  the  second  place,  besides  this  peculiar  confor- 
mation of  the  Eno-lish  race  and  mind,  there  is  still  another 
feature  in  its  histor}^  which  contributes  to  render  the  study 
of  it,  and  its  productions,  of  more  worth  than  that  of  any 
other  of  the  literatures  of  modern  Europe.  We  allude  to 
the  peculiar  and  powerful  influence  which  the  Christian 
religion  has  had  upon  its  formation  and  development. 
We  have  already  alluded  to  the  fact  that  one  great  cause 
of  the  difference  between  Ancient  and  Modern  culture, 
civilization,  and  literature,  is  to  be  traced  to  the  influence 
of  divine  revelation.  Christianity  imparted  a  depth  and 
spirituality  to  the  thought  and  feeling  of  the  modern 
world,  whicli  could  not  arise  under  the  predominantly 
sensualizing  tendency  of  paganism,  and  those  literatures 
which  imbibed  its  spirit  most  deeply  and  purely,  other 
things  being  equal,  are  most  worthy  of  attention.  For 
they  harmonize  best  with  the  tone  and  spirit  of  the  mod- 
ern world;  they  best  prepare  the  scholar  to  enter  vividly 
and  with  a  vital  consciousness  into  the  career  and  move- 
ment of  modern  society  ;  they  afford  more  that  awakens 
and  strengthens  and  nurtures  tlie  individual  mind  ;  they 
are  less  liable  to  be  exhausted  of  their  contents  and  to  be 
outgrown  and  left  behind  in  the  jn-ogressive  development 
of  human  nature.  But  of  all  the  literatures  of  modern 
Europe,  the  English  felt  the  influence  of  Christianity  in 
its  purest  form.  The  literatures  of  Southern  Europe 
grew  up  under  the  influence  of  a   nominal    Christianity 


OF   ENGLISH    STUDIES.  51 

that  had  in  it  far  more  of  the  sensualism  of  paganism  than 
the  spiritnalitv  of  the  gospel.  The  effects  of  it  are  to 
be  seen,  this  clay,  in  the  nerveless,  emasculated  national 
character,  and  the  feeble,  decaying,  dying  literature. 
The  English  mind  and  heart,  on  the  contrary,  have  in  the 
main,  been  exj^osed,  age  after  age,  to  the  spiritualizing 
influences  and  discipline  of  the  Christian  religion.  Even 
those  periods  in  English  history  when  a  false  Christianity 
prevailed,  only  served  to  make  the  recoil  more  violent, 
and  to  subject  the  nation  to  a  still  purer  and  still  more 
spiritual  form  of  truth.  The  rich,  healthy  genius  and 
strono:  sense  of  Eno-land  have,  for  a  longer  and  less  inter- 
rupted  period  than  has  been  the  case  with  any  other  peo- 
ple, been  slowly,  and  from  the  centre,  unfolding  them- 
selves under  the  cultivatin£>\  elevatinir,  humanizinii:  intlu- 
_ences  of  the  Christian  religion. 

In  the  English  literature,  then,  by  virtue  of  the  com- 
prehensive representative  character  of  the  English  mind, 
and  the  strength,  depth,  and  purity  of  the  influence  ex- 
erted upon  it  by  the  Christian  religion,  is  the  modern 
student  to  find  the  most  eftectual  preservative  against  that 
literary  formalism  which  an  unbalanced,  and  in  reality 
nngcnial  study  of  classical  literature  is  sure  to  produce. 
The  modern  scholar  ought  to  be  a  man  of  power  and  of 
impression.  lie  ought  also  to  be  a  man  of  wull-propor- 
tloned,  symmetrical,  elegant  culture,  lint  he  is  more 
likely  to  be  the  latter,  if  he  is  already  the  former,  than  he 
is  to  be  the  fcjrmer,  if  he  is,  first,  the  latter.  For,  wherever 
there  is  matter  and  power  to  start  with,  there  mai/  be 
beauty,  and  gra'ce,  and  elegance.  The  same  degree  of 
careful  effort  devoted  to  the  artistic  and  fornuil  flnish  of 
a  work  aftei\  instead  of  before,  the  pro])er  diligence  and 
care  have  been  devoted  to  its  material  origination  within 
the  mind,  will   elaborate  it  into  a  high  beauty  and  an  ex- 


62  THE   INFLUENCE    AND   METHOD 

qnisitc  grace,  that  are  absolutely  beyond  the  power  of  one 
who  lias  not  thus  beguti  at  the  beginning ;  who  has  not 
first  gendered  the  work  in  his  own  soul. 

In  the  thoughtful  opulence  and  the  throbbing  life  of 
the  English  literature,  the  niodern  student  should,  then, 
seek  for  mental  wealth  and  power  ;  for  that  vigorous  and 
masculine  principle  that  will  vivify  all  his  other  culture 
from  whatever  source  it  come.  In  so  doing,  he  is  going 
to  Ophir  for  gold,  to  the  gorgeous  East  for  barbaric  pearl, 
to  the  very  heart  of  nature  for  the  forces  of  life.  For  let 
him  bring  before  his  mind,  for  a  moment,  the  series  of 
productions  in  the  several  departments  of  literature,  which 
the  English  mind  has  been  originating  and  throwing  off 
with  freedom,  and  force,  and  wonderful  variety,  during 
the  last  half  millennium  ;  let  him  remember  the  wisdom 
of  Bacon,  and  Hooker,  and  Burke;  the  satire  of  Hall,  of 
Butler,  of  Dryden,  of  Swift ;  the  humor  of  Chaucer,  of 
Goldsmith,  of  Sterne,  of  Lamb  ;  the  brilliancy  and  art  of 
Pope  ;  the  magnificence  and  architecture  of  Milton ;  the 
sweetness,  and  fluency,  and  flushed  beauty,  of  Spenser ; 
the  meditativeness  of  Wordsworth,  and  the  intensity  of 
Byron  ;  let  him  think,  lastly,  of  that  wonderful  being  in 
whom  all  these  qualities  existed  in  their  prime  and  purity, 
and  found  their  full  expression  in  the  immense  -range  and 
expanse  of  the  Shaksperean  drama,  in  the  portraiture  of 
the  whole  human  being  in  its  myriad  minds  and  moods  : 
let  the  modern  student  recall  all  this,  and  feel  its  full 
impression,  and  believe  that,  in  pursuing  the  close  and 
thorough  ptudy  of  English  literature,  he  is  pursuing  the 
study  of  the  richest  and  the  most  thoughtful,  the  most  vigor- 
ous and  the  most  vitalizing  literature  of  the  modern  world. 

II.  Tiie  second  principal  effect  of  English  studies  is 
seen  in  the  excellence  of  the  style  of  thought  aiid  expres- 
aloii  that  results  from,  their  prosecution. 


OF   ENGLISH   STUDIES.  53 


Tlie  mode  of  thinkino;  induced  into  a  mind  bv  a 
course  of  education  is  a  matter  of  the  highest  importance. 
If  it  cannot  be  said  that  it  is  of  as  great  moment  hoio  the 
mind  thinks,  as  wJiat  it  thinks,  it  can  be  asserted  with 
positiveness,  that  the  tnatter  of  its  thoughts  is  very  closely 
connected  with  the  manner  of  them,  and,  in  this  respect, 
the  style  of  thinking  becomes  worthy  of  attention  and 
cultivation. 

By  the  style  of  thinhing,  is  meant  the  particular  and 
j^eculiar  manner  in  which  thought  is  produced  in  the 
mind  when  left  to  its  spontaneous,  unwatched  workings. 
This  peculiar  manner  undoubtedly  has  its  lowest  founda 
tion  in  the  peculiar  structure  of  the  individual  mind  ;  bur, 
it  is  also  modified,  and,  to  a  certain  extent  determined,  by 
the  class  of  minds  and  kinds  of  thought,  in  other  words, 
by  the  species  of  literature,  with  which  it  is  familiar. 
Besides,  so  far  as  the  style  of  thinking  is  founded  upon, 
and  determined  by,  the  structure  of  the  human  mind 
itself,  it  is  a  correct  one,  and  all  deviations  therefoi'c,  in 
the  wrong  direction,  must  be  traced  to  external  influences. 
For  the  mind  itself  is  well  made,  and  when  its  laws  and 
constitution  are  perfectly  obeyed,  nothing,  either  in  its 
mode  of  action,  or  in  its  products,  requires  emendation 
or  correction. 

When,  liowever,  a  mind  is  exposed  to  the  influence  of 
other  minds,  whose  way  of  thought  is  unnatural,  affected, 
artiflcial,  extravagant,  or  whatever  the  bad  quality  may 
be,  it  is  very  liable  to  be  drawn  into  the  satne  false  man- 
ner. Especially  is  this  true,  in  case  there  be  in  the 
individual  mind  ti  bent  of  the  same  general  character. 
In  this  case,  the  student,  while  in  the  i)lastic  process, 
and  before  he  has  reached  "  the  years  that  bring  the 
philosoi)hic  mind,"  is  extremely  liable  to  attach  himself 
to  some   school  in    letters,  in    which    the  false  mode  of 


54  THE   INFLUENCE   AND   METHOD 

thought  has  cmhodied  itself  in  all  probability  in  dazzling 
glare,  and  M'ith  a  species  of  imposing  power  difficult  to  be 
resisted.  Falling  in,  as  it  docs,  with  his  own  particular 
tendency,  it  is  no  wonder  that  his  whole  intellect  is  taken 
captive  by  it,  and  he  acquires  a  fixed  style  of  thinking, 
in  which  the  most  glaring  faults  of  his  model  appear. 

But  the  age,  as  well  as  the  single  individual,  always  has 
a  style  of  thinking  that  is  peculiar  to  itself,  and  this  also 
exerts  a  controlling  iufiuence  upon  the  individual.  For 
that  must  be  an  extremely  intense  and  determined  indi- 
viduality that  can  keep  itself  out  of  the  great  main  cur- 
rent and  tendency  of  the  age  in  which  it  lives,  and,  in 
strong  contrast,  exhibit  a  style  of  thinking  purely  sui- 
generic.  Such  individualities,  when  genuinely  original, 
become  the  creators  of  new  schools  in  literature,  and  of 
new  eras  in  art.  The  great  mass  of  men,  however,  natu- 
rally share  in  the  general  intellectual  characteristics  of  the 
age  in  which  they  live,  and  no  one  can  ]-id  himself  of  the 
faults  of  his  age,  unless  he  carefully  study  and  imbibe 
some  of  the  better  characteristics  of  other  periods.  If  lie 
contents  himself  with  the  literature  of  the  present,  and 
suffers  himself  to  be  the  mere  creature  and  copy  of  its 
good  and  Itad  qualities  alike,  he  will  not  attain  the  best 
development  of  his  own  mind,  and  will  help  to  perpetu- 
ate what  is  defective  in  the  existing  type  of  thought  and 
culture, 

/"  The  influence  of  English  studies,  and  especially  of  the 
/study  of  the  earlier  English,  in  reference  to  the  point 
imder  consideration,  is  most  excellent.  For,  if  we  were 
called  upon  to  mention  the  distinguishing  characteristic 
of  these  elder  writers,  we  should  mention  the  sincerity 
and  thoroughness  of  their  mental  processes.  They  never 
write  for  merely  momentary  effect,  but  absorb  themselves, 
with  great  self-forgetful ness,  in  the  subject  of  their  re- 


OF   ENGLISH    STUDIES.  55 

flections.  They  had,  it  is  true,  one  advantage  over  writ- 
ei-8  of  the  present  day :  they  composed  before  criticism 
(eitlier  as  theory  or  practice)  became  a  constituent  part  of 
the  national  literature,  and  hence  wrote  without  restraint. 
But,  aside  from  this,  the  elder  English  mind  was  a  singu- 
larly thoughtful  and  even-tempered  one.  When  stirred 
deeply,  it  proved  itself  to  be  a  mind  full  of  powers  and 
energies,  as  the  political  history  of  England  shows.  But 
this  force  was  under  the  control  of  strong  English  sense, 
and  of  that  more  profound  faculty  which  is  the  parent  of 
ideas  and  the  discoverer  of  laws.  This  temperance  of  in- 
tellect, this  moderation  of  soul,  invariably  accompanies 
depth  and  richness  of  thought,  and  manifests  itself  in  a 
grave  and  commanding  style  of  reflection  and  expression. 
Turn,  for  example,  to  the  poetry  of  Spenser  and  Milton, 
to  the  philosophy  of  Bacon,  to  the  history  of  Kalcigli,  and 
notice  the  entire  absence  of  that  quality  so  much  strained 
after  by  the  modern  belle-lettrist,  the  striking  and  the 
startling.  The  charm  lies  not  in  individual  passages — 
and  hence  no  compositions  suffer  more  when  judged  of  by 
"  ek'gant  extracts"  from  them — but  in  the  continuous  and 
continual  flow  of  the  main  current  of  thought,  which 
pours  onward  in  gentleness,  in  quietness,  and  in  broad, 
Vdeep  strength.  This  same  cliaracteristic  is  seen  in  every 
department  of  literary  composition,  l^^vcn  in  autobiog- 
raphy, where  the  writer  would  ];e  specially  tenqited  to 
throw  a  brilliant  hue  over  his  own  personal  history,  the 
same  sedateness  and  balance  of  judgment  is  exhib- 
ited. The  Memoii's  of  Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury,  for 
cxani[>le,  contain  the  history  of  on(!  of  the  most  rare  and 
acconi[)lished  gentlemen,  as  well  as  one  of  the  most 
learned  and  tliou;;htful  students,  of  the  aire  in  whic.li 
he  lived.  They  also  contain  an  account  of  chi\;ilrouii 
adventures. 


50  THE   INFLUENCE    AND   METIIOn 

of  most  disastrous  chancea, 
Of  moving  accidents,  by  Hood  and  field  ; 
Of  hair-breadth  scapes  i'  the  imminent  deadly  breach. 

And  yet  the  imrnitive  is  eqiiublo  and  tranquil,  tlie  lan- 
guage Jiiild,  melodious,  and  ilowing;  and  the  coloring 
over  the  whole,  not  glaring  and  showy,  but  sober,  suffused, 
and  rich.  Indeed,  what  Ileminge  and  Condell,  the  edi- 
tors of  the  first  edition  of  Shakspeare,  say  of  this  author, 
apjdies  to  the  early  English  writers  generally :  "  As  he 
was  a  happy  imitator  of  nature,  so  he  was  a  most  gentle 
expresser  of  it.  His  mind  and  hand  went  together ;  and 
what  lie  thought,  he  nttered  with  that  easiness,  tliat  we 
have  scarce  received  from  him  a  blot  in  his  papers." 

These  characteristics  in  the  mode  of  thought  and  expres- 
sion arose  from  the  singular  sincerity  and  gravity  of  the 
English  character  and  mind,  in  these  earlier  stages  of  its 
history.  By  sincerity  we  mean  the  pure  outgoing  or  issue 
of  the  mind,  unmodified  by  any  outward  references.  As 
has  been  already  remarked,  the  Englishman  of  this  period 
had  not  the  fear  of  the  critic  before  his  eyes.  English 
literature,  therefore,  though  it  suffered  undoubtedly  for 
the  want  of  a  sound  philosophic  criticism,  and  was  some- 
what lacking  in  those  excellent  qualities,  conciseness  and 
perspicuity,  which  the  sharp  analysis  of  a  later  day  has 
superinduced  upon  it,  did,  nevertheless,  attain  to  a  sweet 
fiuency,  and  rich  copiousness,  and  sober  gravity,  and  wise 
thoughtfulness,  that  have  never  been  surpassed.  Again, 
the  anthor  of  these  periods  did  not  Avritc  for  all  grades 
and  capacities  of  intellect.  He  was  not  a  society  for  the 
diffusion  of  nseful  knowledge  among  all  classes  of  men, 
but  he  was  a  retiring,  studious  pei'son,  who  thought  as  he 
listed,  and  wrote  without  much  regard  to  an  immediate 
sensation,  for  a  "fit  audience  though  few."  Far  be  it' 
frorn  us  to  speak  disj^aragingly  of  the  useful  knowledge 


/^ 


OF   ENGLISH   STUDIES.  57 

diffused  so  Avidelj  at  the  present  day,  oi'  of  that  body  of 
sound  and  useful  literature  which  has  been  called  into 
existence  by  the  wants  of  the  people.  In  reference  to  all 
the  solid  characteristics  and  qualities  of  literature,  it  is 
more  worthy  of  the  name  than  much  of  the  so-called 
polite  literature  and  belles-lettres  of  the  times.  Like  the 
elder  literature  of  which  we  have  been  speaking,  it  is  an 
honest  and  sound  production.  It  came  into  being  owing 
to  a  felt  want,  and  it  meets  a  felt  want  of  an  intelligent, 
sound-hearted  body  of  men,  and  therefore  it  is  to  be 
respected  by  every  one  who  respects  the  human  mind. 
Still,  the  somewliat  insulated  position  of  the  earlier  English 
wi-iters,  by  freeing  them  from  all  side  influences  and  by 
aims,  gave  them  an  opportunity  to  free  their  mind  as 
slowly,  as  lengthily,  as  copiously,  as  thoroughly  as  they 
pleased.  They  were  at  liberty,  in  tlie  retirement  of  their 
closets,  and  addressing  a  limited  public  of  similar  culti- 
vation with  themselves,  to  pay  no  attention  to  time,  place, 
or  circumstances,  in  the  development  of  a  subject.  That 
slutrt  method,  rapid  movement,  and  striking  statement  in 
which  we  of  the  present  excel  them,  and  which  is  a  neces- 
sary quality  in  oratory,  is  not  to  be  found  in  them.  AVe 
must  look  to  modern  English  literature  for  the  best  speci- 
mens of  oratorical  composition. 

The  whole  influence  of  such  a  thoughtful  and  sincere 
literature  upon  the  mind  is  educating  in  the  highest 
degree.  The  reader  is  not  violently  excited  by  a  rapid 
series  of  single  striking  thoughts  and  inuiges,  which,  in 
the  phrase  of  De  Quincey,  "can  hardly  have  time  to 
glance,  like  the  lamps  of  a  mail  coach,  before  his  hurried' 
and  bewildered  understanding,"  but  he  is  gradually  pene- 
trated and  permeated  by  warm  currents  of  rich  and  genial 
reflection,  lie  acquii-es,  insensibly,  the  same  temperate 
and  composed  style  of  thinking  ;  learns  to  com7/iune,  long 


o-X- 


5S  TIIK    INFl.l'KNUl';    AND    METHOD 

;iik1  patiently,  witli  the  subjects  that  come  hcfore  liia 
luiiui ;  and,  like  these  his  teacliers  and  models,  linds  all 
themes  wonderfull}'  fertile.  For,  along  with  this  sim- 
plicity, there  is  a  remarkable  copiousness  in  the  literature 
of  whicli  we  are  speaking.  Instead  of  being  made  poor 
by  this  freedom  and  pi'odigality,  these  minds,  like  a  living 
fountain,  only  became  more  ebullient  the  more  they  were 
drawn  from.  Call  to  mind,  for  example,  the  wonderful 
fertility  of  the  English  mind  in  the  Eh'zabethan  age. 
What  an  immense  amount  of  rich  and  weighty  thought, 
that  was  ricli  and  weighty  enough  to  come  down  to  our 
day,  and  which  will  have  a  permanent  interest  for  the 
hunuui  mind  in  all  time,  was  originated  during  the  fifty 
years  between  1575  and  1625.  During  this  short  fifty 
years,  Englisli  literature  was  enriched  by  the  productions 
of  Spenser,  Sidney,  Raleigh,  Bacon,  Hooker,  Shakspeare, 
Jonson,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Chapman,  Marlowe, 
AVel)ster,  Middleton,  and  Ford.  The  catalogue  reminde 
one  of  the  dazzlins;  treasure  vault  of  Marlowe's  rich  Jew 
of  Malta : 

Infinite  riches  in  a  little  room, 

Bags  of  fiery  opals,  sapphires,  amethysts, 

Jacinths,  hard  topaz,  grass-green  emeralds, 

Beauteous  rubies,  sparkling  diamonds. 

And  seld-seen  costly  stones  of  so  great  price, 

As  one  of  them,  indifferently  rated, 

And  of  a  caract  of  this  quality, 

May  serve,  in  peril  of  calamity. 

To  ransome  great  kings  from  captivity. 

This  fertility  of  the  English  mind  was,  at  once,  the 
cause  and  effect  of  the  prevailing  st}'le  of  thinking  at  that 
period.  The  striking,  startling,  brilliant  mode,  which  has 
reached  its  acme  in  the  modern  novel,  nol  drawing  upon 
the  meditativeness  and  reserve  of  the  intellectual  charac- 


OF   ENGLISH    STUDIES.  59 

tor,  is  utterly  incompatible  with  such  a  wiioji  of  quantity 
with  high  quality,  as  appears  in  this  Elizabethan  litei-a- 
ture.  On  the  contrary,  that  calm  and  composed  metliod 
which  characterized  these  men,  and  which  is  worth  toiling 
after,  is  most  conformed  to  the  nature  of  the  human 
liiind,  to  that  "large  discourse  of  reason  which  looks  be- 
fore and  after,"  and  consequentl}'  may  be  presumed  to  be, 
more  than  any  other  one,  the  mode  in  and  through  whicli 
the  contents  of  the  mind  may  be  discharged  in  ricliest 
abundance  and  with  least  self -exhaustion. 

In  this  connection,  it  is  worthy  of  notice  that  the  prin- 
ciple here  advanced  holds  good  in  other  departments  be- 
sides tliat  of  letters.  The  highest  and  most  productive 
genius  in  Fine  Art  is  also  the  calmest  and  gravest.  Ra- 
pliael  died  at  the  early  age  of  tliirty-seven,  yet  he  filled 
all  Europe  with  master-pieces  before  he  died.  And  into 
each  one  of  these  works  he  threw,  with  all  the  prodigality 
of  nature  herself,  a  world  of  life,  motion,  and  expression. 
Many  of  his  pie(;es  are  groups,  and  groups  within  groups ; 
and  yet  each  individual  in  them  is  itself  a  study.  His 
creative  talent  finds  no  j^arallel  but  in  Shakespeare  him- 
self:  and  there  is  certainly  no  distant  similaritv  between 
that  universality  and  wealth  of  artistic  power  which  pro- 
jected itself  in  the  paintings  of  Raphael  and  that  which 
(Mubonied  itsell'  in  the  vastness  of  the  Slmksperean  drama. 
But  Raphael's  genius  was  mild  and  serene.  His  tempera- 
ment bordered  u])on  the  feminine  ;  and  his  activity  as  an 
sirlist  was  delii;crate,  equable,  and  sustained.  Indeed,  the 
history  of  literature,  generally,  sliows  that  ages  of  great 
productive  power  have  not  been  marked  by  violent  and 
spasmodic  action.  The  intellects  of  that  wonderful  age, 
the  age  of  Rericles,  were  grave  arul  ti'an(juil  in  their  na- 
ture and  actings.  Soecpiablu  and  calm  was  their  intellec- 
tual   manner,  that  the   Crreek  })r(jse  of   this  jicriod,  es[)e- 


/ 


60  THE   INFLUENCE   AND   METHOD 

cially  that  of  Plato,  is  rhythmic  and  sweetly  musical,  and 
their  thouc^ht  is  so  utterly  destitute  of  everything  start- 
ling  or  glaring,  tliat  the  modern  student,  brought  up,  as 
he  has  been,  amid  the  animation,  and  brilliancy,  and  sen- 
sation of  the  present  age,  must  school  himself,  and  acquire 
a  classic  taste,  a  taste  for  Platonic  beauty,  before  he  can 
feel  its  hidden  charm. 

But  while  this  feature  in  the  elder  English  mind  and 
literature  is  brought  out,  it  is  necessary  to  guard  against 
the  notion  that  this  calmness  was  accompanied  witli  dul- 
ness,  that  the  body  of  thought  thus  originated  is  destitute 
of  vitality  and  energy.  The  life  and  the  power  run  very 
deep,  and  they  are  felt  with  tremendous  force,  by  that 
mind,  and  only  that  mind,  which  by  a  genial  and  some- 
what reproductive  study,  has  adopted  the  same  style  of 
thinking.  For  when  the  student  has  once  snnk  down 
into  the  element,  and  the  depth,  where  these  minds  think, 
and  can  repeat  their  processes,  he  knows  of  a  vitality  and 
an  energy  not  to  be  found  nearer  the  surface.  The  lit- 
erature of  which  we  are  speaking,  is  in  no  sense  languid 
or  lifeless.  The  minds  that  produced  it  were  deeply  ear- 
nest, inspired  with  a  serious  purpose,  and  at  no  rare  inter- 
vals glowing  with  enthusiasm.  Nay,  they  seem  to  have 
found  their  most  congenial  sphere  in  the  drama  ;  the  de- 
partment of  all  niost  aloof  from  coldness,  tameness,  and 
lifelessness.  The  subject-matter  in  which  they  seem  to 
have  taken  the  liveliest  pleasure  was  human  passion  ; 
and  that  this  most  vivid  part  of  human  nature  found  a 
powerful  painter  in  them,  the  Elizabethan  drama  is  a 
proof.  For  if  we  look  through  universal  literature,  we 
cannot  find  anything  more  passionate  than  this  drama. 
Saying  nothing  of  its  immense  range  and  expanse,  it 
being  nothing  less  than  the  whole  human  consciousnesSj 
an  infinite  canvas  which  would  seem  to  require  an  infi- 


OF   ENGLISH    STUDIES..  61 

nito  rather  than  a  finite  power  to  fill  up ;  saying  nothing 
of  its  vast  extent,  nowhere  do  we  find  such  an  intensity 
of  life,  breath,  and  motion  ;  and  this  too  at  every  point, 
and  in  every  part  and  particle.  Take  the  play  of  Ham- 
let, for  example.  "We  do  not  find  the  violent,  volcanic 
energy  of  a  modern  melodrama,  or  of  a  modern  French 
novel ;  but  he  must  be  stone-dead  in  the  depths  of  his 
being  who  does  not  find  beating  throughout  this  organisin 
the  deep  life  of  nature  and  reality,  and  beating  with  a 
stronger  pulse  the  more  he  knows  of  it.  Take  again,  a 
play  like  the  "  White  Devil,"  of  Webster,  and  see  with  what 
terrible  strength  the  fundamental  passions  of  human  na- 
ture are  shown  workins;.  Notice  the  rousino;  effect  of 
the  play  upon  the  niind.  This  production  of  this  same 
reserved  and  thoughtful  period  is  intensely  passionate. 
It  has  a  most  profound  aftinity  with  the  human  imagina- 
tion, and  raises  storms  of  feeling  and  j)assion  in  the  mind 
of  the  reader. 

The  truth  is,  the  literature  of  this  period  is  alive  all 
through^  and  hence  the  depth  and  calmness  of  its  life. 
The  more  that  is  known  of  it,  the  more  will  it  be  felt  to 
be  a  powerfully  educating  instrument,  No  literature  im- 
parts a  more  distinctive  and  higldy  determined  character 
to  the  culture  of  one  who  studies  it;  and  this  not  for  one 
stage  of  the  intellectual  life,  but  for  all  stages.  It  is 
characteristic  of  a  less  reserved  and  more  strikino;  mode 
of  thinking,  that  it  seizes  with  violence  upon  the  mind  at 
a  particular  period,  and  takes  possession  of  it  altogether 
during  this  ]>erio(l.  It  exerts  a  greater  influence  than  it 
lias  a  right  to,  because  no  one  style  is  absolute  and  perfect 
enough  to  justify  this  monopolizing  of  all  the  powers  and 
capacities  of  the  human  soid,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other 
forms  of  literature,  or  modes  of  thought.  Even  in  the 
case  of  the  higher  and  more  perfect  species  of  literature 


63  Tllli    INFLlIlONCli    AND    METHOD 

of  which  we  are  spealving,  the  influence  exerted  is  not 
to  the  exchision  or  at  the  expense  of  that  of  other  excel- 
lent species,  such  as  the  classic,  for  exainj^le,  hut  in  co- 
incidence and  harmony  with  it.  It  is  therefore  an  un- 
favorahle  sii'n  in  relation  to  the  character  of  a  mode  of 
thouf>-ht,  or  a  school  in  letters,  if  the  mind,  during  one 
particular  period  in  its  history,  and.  especiallj^  if  it  is  an 
unripe  one,  become  so  absorbed  in  it  as  to  be  dead  to  all 
other  forms.  A  reaction  must  come  eventually,  and  the 
favorite  author  will  become  as  intensely  repulsive,  as  he 
was  once  intensel}'  attractive. 

But  the  influence  of  the  literature  under  consideration 
iS  eminently  catholic  and  liberalizing.  The  mental  ten- 
dency produced  by  the  study  of  it  does  not  in  the  least 
unfit  the  student  for  a  genial  appreciation  of  other  forms. 
Nay,  we  afiirm  that  it  is  one  of  the  very  best  preservatives 
against  narrowness  in  criticism,  and  bigotry  in  literary 
(^feeling.  The  calm,  self-possessed,  thoughtful  spirit, 
which  reigns  in  English  litei'ature,  taken  as  a  whole,  tends 
to  extii'pate  all  exclusive  sympathies,  and  to  render  the 
intellectual  afiinities  more  comprehensive  and  far-reach- 
ing. Whenever  we  meet  a  mind,  one  of  the  deep  bases 
of  whose  culture  has  been  laid  in  a  thorough  apprehen- 
sion and  genial  admiration  of  English  thought  in  its 
best  forms,  we  meet  one  of  enlarged  and  catholic  views 
of  literature  generally.  Such  an  one  is  far  better  qualified 
to  sit  in  judgment  upon  a  false  and  exaggerated  mode  of 
thinking,  than  he  who  is  whoUv  involved  in  it  can  le. 
The  admiration  which  he  feels  towards  a  dazzling  schtol 
or  author  is  far  more  correct,  because  it  is  far  more  mode- 
rate and  intelligent,  than  that  of  a  servile  disciple.  lie 
is  not  blind  to  its  faults,  and  therefore  best  knows  the 
actual  woi'th  of  its  excellences. 

And  more  than  all,  and  better  than  all,  the  style  of 


OF   ENGLISH    STUDIES.  63 

thinking  produced  by  tlie  study  of  the  literature  in  ques- 
tion is  essentially  permanent  in  its  cliaracter.  By  this  is 
not  meant,  that  it  is  a  stiff  and  rigidly  fixed  style,  incom- 
patil)le  with  mental  freedom ;  a  style  that  is  a  mechanical, 
rather  than  a  vital  process,  and  keeps  the  thinker  con- 
stantly running  in  his  old  ruts.  The  style  is  2'>ernianent, 
in  the  sense  of  beinj?  broad  enouirh,  and  calm  enouo-h,  to 
make  room  for  all  the  moditications  that  mav  be  intro- 
duced  into  it  by  the  growing  culture  of  the  student,  with- 
out changing  or  deranging  the  ground-worh.  The  mind 
has  not  been  committed,  so  to  speak,  to  intensity  of  any 
sort,  to  any  violent  manner,  but  is  impartial,  grave,  and 
judicial  in  its  tone  and  temper.  Hence  it  is  not  com- 
pelled, in  order  to  change  at  all  in  its  style  of  thought  or 
expression,  to  change  altogetlier  and  take  on  some  entirely 
new  f(n-m  of  intensity  or  mental  violence,  thus  going 
through  a  round  of  particular  and  transient  manners,  or 
rather  rnojinerisms,  but  never  acquiring  any  one  perma- 
nent and  standard  style.  For  it  is  noticeable,  that  a  con- 
stant hankerinu;  after  the  most  intense  and  striking:;  form 
is  destructive  of  all  true  form.  An  intellectual  restless- 
ness is  produced  in  tliis  way,  that  keeps  the  mind  in  a 
ceaseless  chase  after  the  novel  and  the  startling,  in  neither 
of  which  can  it  ever  find  permanent  satisfaction  and  rest. 
The  truth  of  these  remarks  may  be  seen  by  a  reference 
to  the  style  of  the  modern  jcjurnalism.  The  journal  must 
bo  strikingand  brilliant,  or  it  is  nothing.  That  repose  and 
reserve  of  manner  which  ap[)ears  in  the  treatise,  in  the 
methodical  organized  ])i'oduct  that  makes  a  positive  addi- 
tion to  the  sum  of  human  knowledge,  is  death  to  the  jour- 
nal. Hence  the  journalist  must  i)e  ever  on  the  alert  for 
forms  of  expression,  and  turns  ol"  i)eriods,  and  peculiari- 
ties of  manner,  that  will  make  a  sensation  in  distinction 
from  an  inqiression.     lie  is  compelled  to  lead  an  intense, 


64  THE    INFLUENCE   AND   METHOD 

excited,  unnatural  intellectual  existence,  and  to  find  ever 
new,  and  ever  clianiyiiiir  forms  for  it.  But  how  little  of 
standard  style,  of  finished,  noble  form,  is  there  in  the  cur- 
rent journal  literature  !  There  is  not  mental  repose  lon<^ 
enoug-h  to  allow  the  mind  to  settle  into  one  pernuuient 
manner.  The  production  of  fixed  form,  the  crystalliza 
tion,  is  prevented  by  the  perpetual  jar  and  agitation. 

Such    then,   we   conceive,    is   the  influence  of  English 
studies  upon  the  style  of  thinking.     They  induce  a  calm, 
grave,  sincere,   profound,   exhaustive,   and   commanding 
manner  of  mind.     And  inasmuch  as  it  is  the  great  end  of 
education  to  enable  the  mind  to  tliink  its  very  best  thought, 
and  to  express  it  in  its  very  best  manner,  the  great  wortlt 
of  this  literature  for  educational  purposes  becomes  appai- 
ent.     It  is  a  powerful  organ  and  instrument  of  culture. 
It  is  to  be  recommended  to  the  modern  student,  as  an 
extremely  influential  means  of  bringing  out  into  full  action 
his  best  capacity.     If  there  be  any  literature  that  can  stii, 
and  stimulate,  and  elicit,  while  at  the  same  time  it  nur- 
tures and  enriches,  it  is  the  English.     And  it  is,  whatever 
may  be  our  theory  on  the  matter,  the  literature  to  which 
we  betake  ourselves  when  we  wish  to  feed  our  mind  with 
sweet  and  wholesome  food  ;  when  we  wish  to  have  its  best 
powers  roused  ;  when  we  wish  to  think  for  our  own  satis- 
faction,  or   to   ffive   out  thouf;ht  for  others.     If  we  are 
scholarly   now,  we   keej^   Milton,   and   Shakspeare,   and 
Chaucer,  and  Bacon,  and  Hooker,  by  us  ;  and  if  we  shall 
continue  to  be  scholars,  these  minds  will  continue  to  mould 
and  educate  our  minds.     For  this  literature  is  home-bred, 
and,  apart  from  its  intrinsic  excellence,  speaks  in  our  own 
tongue,  and  addresses  our  own  nationality,  and  our  own 
individuality.     To  feel  its  influence,  we  need  only  to  keep 
a  healthy  English    spirit,  and    a    sound  English    heart 
within  us;  we  have  but  to  open  our  mouths,  and  draw 


OF   ENGLISH    STUDIES.  65 

in  the  fresh  bracing  element  and  atmosphere  we  were 
born  for, 

III.  In  our  discussion  thus  far,  we  have  devoted 
ahnost  exchisive  attention  to  the  elder  English  writers ; 
and  it  might,  perhaps,  be  inferred  that  we  would  discard 
the  productions  of  the  later  authors,  and  do  them  injustice. 
Tliis  would  be  a  mistaken  inference :  for,  although  we 
l)elieve  that  if  a  line  were  drawn  between  the  literature 
preceding,  and  that  succeeding,  Milton,  the  weightier  and 
more  precious  portion  would  lie  on  the  further  side  of  it, 
we  would  not  say  one  word  that  could  possibly  lead  to  the 
neglect  of  any  portion  of  a  literature  that  we  desire  to  have 
studied  as  a  sum-total.  From  his  contemporaneous  posi- 
tion, and  immediate  relation  to  it,  however,  the  modern 
will  not  be  likely  to  undervalue  modern  English  author- 
ship ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  much  need  of 
effort  and  urgency  to  prevent  him  from  remaining  as 
ignorant  of  Chaucer,  and  even  of  Spenser,  as  if,  instead 
of  being  the  "  wells  of  English  undetiled,"  they  belonged 
to  a  foreign  literature.  The  purpose,  therefore,  of  the 
remainder  of  this  discussion  will  be,  to  give  some  practi- 
cal directions  respecting  the  best  method  of  pursuing 
English  Studies  philcjlogically  and  critically. 

One  principal  reason  why  tlie  language  and  literature 
of  Enghmd,  wliich  really  forms  the  connecting  link  be- 
tween the  student  and  the  great  modern  world  into  which 
he  is  soon  to  enter  and  become  a  constituent  part,  lias  ex- 
erted so  little  comparative  influence  in  the  system  of  pub- 
lic instru(ttion,  and  in  connection  with  classical,  mathoma- 
lical,  and  philosophical  (lis(Mpline,  lies  in  the  fact  that  it 
has  not  been  matle  the  suljject  of  eiijiiioUxjmil  study  and 
l>ldlolo(i'ic(d  analysis.  No  language,  no  literature,  as  wo 
remarked  in  the  outset,  can  exert  a  thoroughly  educating 
pmver,  unless  the  mind  works  its  way  into  it  by  the  study 


GO  THE    INFLUENCK    AND    METHOD 

of  its  individual  words  and  radicals;  unless  its  force  and 
life  are  felt  tlirougli  the  slow  process  of  decomposing  and 
recoinbining  its  rudiniental  elements.  The  first  practical 
rccoiumendation  tliereforo  is  this :  Select  an  old  English 
autht)r  from  a  period  so  remote  that  his  language  and 
style  shall  be  so  strange  and  unknown,  as  to  require  close 
glossarial  and  grammatical  study  in  order  to  a  bare  under- 
standing of  him.  The  common  error  is,  to  select  a  writer, 
Milton  or  Shakspeare,  for  example,  so  near  to  our  own 
time  as  to  require  but  little  study  of  this  sort  in  order  to 
reach  his  general  meaning.  But,  in  reality,  such  autliors 
as  tliese  should  be  studied  only  after  a  pi'cparatoiy  disci- 
pline of  the  sort  we  are  recommending.  The  wonders  of 
their  English  style  can  be  appreciated  only  by  one  who 
has  analyzed  tlie  language  in  its  roots,  and  has  acquired  a 
knowledge  of  its  history ;  only  by  one  who  has  traced 
words  up  to  their  origin,  and  down  again,  through  all 
their  changes  and  uses  ;  only  by  one  who  has  investigated 
the  various  styles  of  thinking  to  be  found  in  the  literature 
as  a  whole,  and  knows,  in  some  good  degree,  all  the  vari- 
ous types  and  manners  the  national  mind  has  taken  on. 
For  these  great  masters  are  highly  national  in  their  literary 
character,  and  their  productions  contain  the  concentrated 
essence  of  the  general  Englisli  mind  and  heart,  and  the 
general  English  culture.  In  oi-der  to  their  profound  ap- 
prehension, a  very  extensive  knowledge  of  English  litera- 
ture is  required;  and  the  truly  philosophic  study  of  them 
caimot  be  commenced,  even,  without  much  previous  prepa- 
ration. The  student  must,  then,  select  Cliaucer  to  start 
with.  lie  must  go  back  of  the  prolific  and  somewhat 
familiar  sixteenth  century,  across  the  almost  totally  sterile 
and  barren  fifteenth  century,  and  plant  himself  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  fourteenth.  In  this  waj',  he  will  have  put  a 
gulf  between  his  present  knowledge  of  English  and  that 


OF   ENGLISPI    STUDIES.  67 

knowledge  M'hich  he  proposes  to  acquire,  over  which  lie 
cannot  pass  without  some  more  earnest  and  thorough 
study  than  is  implied  in  an  easy  and  passive  perusal  of  a 
form  of  English  like  that  of  Shakspeare  or  Spenser. 
He  will  be  made  aware  that  the  Englishman  of  1350  used 
a  form  of  English  that  is,  to  a  great  extent,  unintelligible 
to  the  Englishman  of  1850  ;  and  yet  a  form  which  thor- 
ough philological  study  will  show  is  not  so  wholly  ditfcr- 
ent  frona  that  employed  by  himself,  as  he  might  imagine 
in  his  present  ignorance  of  it.  Increasing  acquaintance 
witli  it  will  evince  that,  after  all,  it  is  genuine,  hearty, 
idiomatic  English,  and  has  a  most  close  and  vital  affinity 
with  the  best  portion  of  his  own  vocabulary,  and  with  the 
raciest,  heartiest  trains  of  thought  in  his  own  mind. 

An  additional  reason  for  selecting  Chaucer  is  found  in 
the  fact  that  in  his  works  the  English  language  first  ap- 
])ears  in  a  tolerably  fixed  form.  Trevious  to  Chaucer,  it 
liad  been  passing  through  those  intermediate  stages  whicli 
marked  the  transition  from  the  pure  Saxon  to  the  English 
pi-oper.  Hence,  the  literature  of  the  nation  may  be  said 
t<j  have  sprung  into  existence  with  him.  For,  Layamon's 
translati(;ii  of  Wace,  the  metrical  Chronicles  of:  Ilobert  of 
Cloucester  and  Itobert  Mannving,  and  the  Vision  of  Piers 
i'lowman — the  principal  productitjns  that  mark  the  prog- 
ress of  the  language  and  literature  of  England  during  the 
two  centuries  between  1150  and  1350 — all  l)ear  evident 
marks  of  imuiaturity  and  instability.  While  the  range  of 
thougiit  is  trivial  and  niean,*  the  form  of  the  language 
and  the  ciiaractcr  of  the  style  indicate  tliat  the  national 
mind,  during  this  p(M-iod,  was  un(;ultivated  and  uniornicd. 
It  was  feeling  the  effects  of  the  Noi'inan  conquest.  Eor, 
althouirli  the  Noi'man  was  more  culliNulcd  than  the  Saxon 

♦  Thin  remark  is  not  true  of  the  ViHion  of  Piera  Tlowman,  which  Ih  a 
vigorous  aud  lively  picture  of  life  iiud  mauucrs. 


68  THE    INFLUENCK    AND   METHOD 

whom  he  coDqucred,  still  the  Saxon  serf  could  derive  to 
liimself  but  little  of  the  culture  of  his  Norman  lord.  The 
relation  existing  between  the  two  parties  precluded  any 
civilizing  and  cultivating  influence  of  one  upon  the  other. 
Only  in  proportion  as  the  Saxon  recovered  his  rights  and 
[)(>litical  freedom,  did  he  profit  by  the  culture  which  his 
conquerors  possessed.  During  the  two  centuries  of  which 
we  are  speaking,  the  English  nation  was  slowly  recovering 
its  freedom,  and  the  English  mind  was  slowly  emerging 
from  the  ignorance  and  barbarism  of  a  servile  condition. 
The  literary  productions  of  this  period,  although  they 
must  receive,  sooner  or  later,  the  careful  study  of  every 
one  who  wishes  to  obtain  a  complete  knowledge  of  the 
English  language  and  literature,  are  crude  in  their  matter, 
ineleirant  and  even  barbarous  in  their  form.  There  is  the 
same  objection,  therefore,  to  commencing  with  them  that 
there  is  to  commencing  with  the  Saxon,  in  order  to  a  com- 
plete knowledge  of  English.  They  are  too  naked  and 
bald  for  the  mere  beginner.  They  are  not  thoughtful  and 
attractive  enough  to  waken  the  interest  of  the  student,  in 
the  first  period  of  his  English  studies.  They  need  to  be 
examined  in  the  light  thrown  back  upon  them  from  a  suc- 
ceeding age,  and  under  the  interest  excited  by  their  seen 
relation  to  forms  of  English  that  have  already  been 
studied  and  mastered.  For  it  is  plain  that  the  natural 
method  for  the  Englishman  to  pursue,  in  the  study  of  liis 
nsotlier  tongue,  is  retrogressive.  lie  should  work  his  way 
back,  from  the  present  form  of  the  language,  step  by  step, 
until  he  reaches  its  heart  and  root.  Instead,  therefore, 
of  leaping  from  the  last  and  newest  form  to  the  first  and 
oldest ;  from  the  present  English  to  the  Saxon  of  Beowulf 
or  Caedmon ;  he  should  study,  one  by  one,  the  interme- 
diate forms,  until,  by  a  natural  and  imperceptible  progress, 
he  arrives  at  the  beginning.     All  that  is  needed  is,  that 


OF   ENGIJSH   STUDIES.         •  09 

he  study  the  subject  by  distinctly-marked  periods ;  that 
he  investigate  authors  who  are  sufficiently  far  apart  to  ena- 
ble him  to  see  and  realize  that  the  language  has  undergone 
a  great  change. 

As  one  of  the  first  steps,  then,  in  English  study,  let 
Chaucer  be  taken  up  as  an  author  to  be  studied  critically 
and  for  years  to  come.  This  is  a  better  method  than 
merely  to  peruse  a  history  of  the  language  and  literature, 
like  those  of  Warton  and  Ellis,  and  there  stop.  It  is  true, 
that  such  histories  afford  a  selection  of  extracts  from  the 
principal  writers  of  each  period,  from  which  some  general 
notions  and  views  may  be  formed ;  but  they  are  the  last 
works  to  be  put  into  the  hands  of  a  beginner.  He  who 
has  already  mastered  the  few  leading  authors  of  the  differ- 
ent periods  may  make  use  of  them,  as  an  aid  in  epitomiz- 
ing and  generalizing  his  knowledge.  For,  by  this  inde- 
pendent and  accurate  study  of  individual  authors,  he  has 
obtained  a  clew  that  will  lead  him  through  the  maze  and 
perplexity  of  a  historical  series,  and  leave  him  in  posses- 
sion of  distinct  and  well-methodized  information.  But 
without  this  clew  and  previous  preparation,  the  vast 
amount  of  material  contained  in  such  a  historv  as  that  of 
Warton  will  only  confuse  and  overwhelm  the  mind,  leav- 
ing it  full  of  obscuritv  and  vagueness.  In  selecting  a 
particular  author,  and  devoting  the  whole  attention  to  him 
for  the  time  being,  the  student  has  only  a  single  end  in 
view.  He  is  busied  with  one  individual  mind,  and  in  en- 
deav(M*ing  to  penetrate  into  its  nature  and  spij-it  his  own 
mind  moves  in  one  straight  line,  and  all  his  acquisitions 
are  simple  and  homogeneous  in  their  character.  And  if 
the  authcji'  whom  he  selects  be  worthy  of  such  an  undivid- 
ed attention  ;  especially  if  he  be  one  in  whom  the  general 
culture  and  spirit  of  his  age  found  expression  ;  llu;  Iciiowi- 
edge  acquired  is  not  only  thorough,  but  extensive.     Eor 


70  TIIR    INT-LUENCE    AND   TVrKTIIon 

such  minds  are  very  broad  as  well  as  deep,  and  there  need 
he  no  fear  of  beconiin<i^  narrowed  by  such  exclusive  study 
of  one  writer.  That  close  and  undivided  attention  wliicli 
the  Greeks,  in  all  ages  of  their  history,  devoted  to  their 
Iloiner,  contributed,  as  much  as  any  one  tiling,  to  tlie 
lil)eral  and  expanded  feeling  so  characteristic  of  Greek 
literature.  The  Greek,  unlike  the  Englishman,  did  not 
allow  the  dialect  or  the  poetry  of  the  father  of  his  nation- 
al literature  to  become  strange  or  obsolete.  His  works 
were  familiar  alike  to  the  educated  Greek  of  the  Attic 
and  Alexandrine  periods.  In  the  words  of  lleeren  : 
"  The  dialect  of  Homer  remained  the  principal  one  for 
epic  poetry,  and  had  an  important  influence  on  Grecian 
literature.  Amidst  all  the  changes  and  improvements  in 
the  language,  it  prevented  the  ancient  from  becoming  an 
tiquated,  and  secured  it  a  place  among  tlie  later  modes 
of  expression."  *  And  had  the  Englishman  been  as  care- 
ful to  prevent  the  lano:na<2:e  and  works  of  the  Eno-lish  II'o- 
mer  from  becominfi:  obsolete  and  unknown,  the  Enirlish 
language  and  literature  would  have  been  different  from 
what  it  now  is,  b}'  a  very  important  modification.  If  that 
stream  of  sweet,  fresh,  and  limpid  thought  had  been  kept 
running,  for  four  centuries  past,  into  the  great  main 
volume  of  English  thought,  there  would  be  more  of  nature 
and  less  of  art  in  it.  If  that  simple,  expressive,  nervous, 
and  (notwithstanding  all  that  has  been  said  to  the  contrary 
by  critics  who  had  not  imbued  themselves  with  Chaucer) 
that  melodious  diction  had  come  along  down  as  a  familiar 
foi-m  of  the  language,  the  English  of  the  present  day 
would  be  a  higher  type  of  the  language  than  it  is. 

Another   reason   for   selectlno-   Chaucer,    and   making 
him  the  subject  of   exclusive  and  close  study  for  a  long 

*  Ancient  Greece.  Chapter  VI.  Bancroft's  Translation. 


OF    EXGLISIT    STUDIES.  71 

time,  is  found  in  the  fact,  that  in  this  way  alone  can  he 
1)0  understood  and  appreciated.  To  read  a  few  extracts 
from  his  works  in  a  compendium,  in  connection  with  a 
few  extracts  from  all  the  other  leading  writers  of  England, 
is  not  the  way  to  a  M'orth}'  and  fruitful  knowledge  of  him. 
Indeed,  the  first  effect  of  Chaucer  upon  the  modern  is  to 
repel ;  and  it  is  only  the  first  effect  that  is  experienced 
uj^on  the  perusal  of  extracts.  The  immediate  impression 
of  an  old  writer  upon  an  uncultivated  mind,  generally, 
is  that  of  disappointment.  The  unschooled  reader  finds 
nothins:  hut  strano-eness  of  diction,  excessive  simplicity  of 
sentiment  bordering  upon  triviality,  pathos  that  is  bathos, 
and  a  verse  from  which  no  ingenuity  can  extract  either 
melody  or  harmony.  All  this  is  true,  in  its  full  extent,  of 
Chaucer.  Even  such  clear  heads  and  sensible  minds  as 
Dean  Swift  and  Alexander  Pope  saw  no  poetry  or  charm 
in  him  ;  if  their  burlesques  and  travesties  of  hiui  afford, 
as  they  unquestionably  do,  any  index  of  their  real  opinion. 
Ihit  it  is  the  effect  of  the  critical  and  prolonged  study  of 
(Jhaucer,  to  so  imbue  the  mind  with  liis  matter  and  man- 
ner, that  his  truthfulness,  and  charm,  and  power,  as  a 
poet,  are  felt  vividly  and  fully.  Perhaps  the  point  upon 
which  the  sceptic  would  hold  out  longest  in  relation  to 
him  would  be  his  verse  ;  it  being  an  unquestioned  asser- 
tion, in  some  very  respectable  schools  of  criticism,  that  it 
is  destitute  of  both  melody  and  liarmony.  But  we  do 
not  hesitate  to  atlirui,  that  when  the  student  has  by  long 
continued  intercourse  become  yt«;/^'i7i'/<'/;■  with  him  ;  wIkmi 
his  antique  strangcniess  has  worn  off,  and  the  ear  has 
become  accustomed  to  certain  variations  fi-oin  the  modern 
custom  in  )U'onunciati(Mi  ;  when,  in  short,  he  has  so  culti- 
vated liimself,  that  Chaucer  is  to  hiui  what  he  was  to  the 
ear  and  the  poetic  feeling  of  his  own  age,  we  aHinii  that 
moi-e  melodious  and  harmonious  verse  is  not  to  be  found 


73  TUE   INFLUENCE   AND   METHOD 

in  the  literature.  It  can  be  read  longer,  and  not  weary 
the  ear,  than  the  verse  of  Scott  or  Moore  can  be ;  because 
the  melody  is  ever  subordinate  to  the  harmony  ;  because 
the  sentiment  is  natural,  and  the  measure  undulates  with 
the  sentiment.  But  such  a  g-enial  and  truthful  apprecia 
tion  of  Chaucer  is  not  the  work  of  a  day.  The  scholar 
must  gradually  grow  into  it,  and  grow  up  to  it.  Time 
alone  imparts  the  sense  and  vernacular  feeling  of  his  ex- 
cellence. 

When  this  author  has  been  completely  mastered,  the 
student  is  prepared  for  those  still  earlier  and  ruder  forms 
of  English,  of  which  we  have  spoken.  Once  at  home  in 
the  English  of  Chaucer,  the  passage  to  that  of  the  metri- 
cal chrt)niclcs  and  scripture  paraphrases  is  easy  and  natur- 
al ;  and  when  these  have  been  studied,  the  few  remains 
of  Saxon  that  are  left  furnish  the  matter  for  the  final 
Btud}'  in  this  direction.* 

The  second  pi-actical  reconnnendation  respecting  the 
best  manner  of  pursuing  the  study  of  the  English  lan- 
guage and  literature  is  this  :  Select  from  leading  periods 
in  the  history  of  the  literature  those  productions  in  which 
the  power  of  the  great  minds  found  its  fullest  expression, 

*  An  English  Chrestomathy  is  a  desideratum.  Beginning-  with 
selections  from  Gower's  Confessio  Amantis  (1415),  followed  by  most  of 
the  Canterbury  Tales  (1390),  then  with  extracts  from  Langland's  Piers 
Plowman  (KWO),  from  Lawrence  Minot  (lo4!)),  from  the  hybrid  form  of 
the  language  in  Robert  de  Brunne's  Chronicle  (looD),  and  Robert  of 
Gloucester's  (1280),  from  Layamon's  translation  of  Wace  (1165),  and 
ending  with  specimens  of  the  Saxon  in  all  its  periods  ;  such  a  reading 
book,  provided  with  a  full  glossaiy,  and  a  brief  Anglo-Saxon  Grammar, 
would  do  great  service  towards  imparting  an  etymological  and  critical 
knowledge  of  English.  For  the  study  of  Saxon  alone,  the  life  of  Alfred, 
by  Pauli,  in  Bohn's  Antiquarian  Library,  which  is  supplemented  by  a 
very  correct  edition  of  the  text  of  Alfred's  Orosius,  together  with  a 
glossary  and  a  concise  Anglo-Saxon  Grammar,  furnishes  a  very  conve- 
nient apparatus. 


OF    ENGLISH    STUDIES.  73 

and  rei^ard  them  as  models  to  be  studied.  As  examples, 
may  be  cited  such  productions  as  Bacon's  Advancement 
of  Learning,  the  first  book  of  Hooker's  Ecclesiastical 
Polity,  Milton's  Speech  for  the  Liberty  of  Unlicensed 
Printing,  Locke's  Conduct  of  the  Understanding,  Burke's 
Retlections  on  the  French  Revolution. 

Productions  like  these  are  eminently  English.  They  are 
highly  characterized  by  the  solid  sense,  the  strong  under- 
standing, and  the  thoughtful  spirit  of  England.  These 
qualities,  it  is  true,  are  characteristic  of  all  genuine  pro- 
ducts of  the  English  mind,  but  they  are  found  in  their 
greatest  energy,  only  in  the  productions  of  leading  minds. 
AV"ith  these,  therefore,  the  student  should  imbue  himself. 
He  may  peruse  the  second-rate  writers  without  being 
greatly  affected  by  these  characteristics,  but  he  caimot 
meditate  upon  such  treatises  as  the  above  mentioned, 
witliout  becoming  more  thoroughly  English  in  the  process. 
The  importance  of  a  national  spirit  in  culture  cannot  be 
overestimated,  and  to  tliis  point  we  would  direct  attention 
for  a  moment.  The  individual  mind  is  not  individual 
merely ;  it  is  also  national  in  its  structure.  It  partakes 
of  the  peculiarities  of  the  particular  race  of  mankind  to 
whi(;h  it  belongs.  As  the  state  is  in  tlie  individual,  as 
really  as  tlie  individual  is  in  the  state,  so  the  nation  is  in 
the  individual,  as  really  as  the  individual  is  in  the  nation. 
]iy  virtue  of  a  political  nature  and  element  in  his  consti- 
tution, the  individual  contains  the  groundwork  and  inward 
I'cality  of  the  commonwealth  of  which  he  is  outwardly  a 
member  ;  and  bv  virtue  of  a  national  and  idiomatic  ele- 
ment  in  his  mind,  the  individual  contains  the  gi-onndwork 
and  inward  reality  oi'  the  nation  of  which  he  is  outwardly 
a  member.  In  neither  case  could  any  conceivable  height- 
ening of  the  merely  and  Htrictltj  iiulividnal,  possibly  [)ro- 
duce  the  national.  No  degree,  however  intense,  of  private 
4 


74  THE    INFLUENCE    AND    METHOD 

and  iiulividual  feeling  conld  possihly  produce  patriotism. 
Private  interest  and  private  feeling  spring  out  of  the 
individual  in  the  man,  and  public  interest  and  public  feel- 
ing spring  out  of  the  state  in  the  man.  Both  natures 
coexist  in  one  subject,  in  harmony  when  human  nature  is 
in  a  normal  condition,  and  in  antagonism  when  it  is  not ; 
but  each  has  its  distinct  characteristics,  and  forms  the 
basis  of  a  distinct  activity. 

These  remarks  hold  true  in  relation  to  literature,  as 
well  as  politics.  In  respect,  therefore,  to  culture  and  to 
authorship,  the  national  is,  or  should  be,  in  the  individual. 
While  the  individual  opens  his  mind  and  heart  to  all  that 
is  true  and  genial  in  the  productions  of  foreign  minds,  he 
should  retain  his  own  nationality  in  its  most  independent 
and  determined  form.  The  Eno-lishman  should  think 
like  an  Englishman,  and  compose  like  an  Englisliman. 

Now  the  thoughtful,  and  ever  repeated,  perusal  of  such 
products  of  tiie  great  English  minds  as  have  been  speci- 
fied above,  contributes  to  strengthen  and  develop  that 
which  is  national  and  idiomatic  in  the  individual  intellect. 
And  in  the  present  influx  of  foreign  literature,  of  foreign 
modes  of  thought  and  expression,  the  conservative  iniiu- 
ence  of  these  great  English  masters  and  models  should  be 
felt  more  than  ever.  It  is  only  by  a  more  profound  acquain- 
tance with  these,  that  the  good  elements  in  other  litera- 
tures and  other  national  minds  can  be  assimilated,  and  the 
bad  rejected.  An  ardent  attention  to  French  literature, 
for  example,  would  induce  an  excessive  materialism,  and 
an  ardent  attention  to  German  literature  a  hyper-spirit- 
ualism, in  the  English  mind  and  literature,  if  each  were 
not  counteracted  by  the  sober  sense  and  calm  reason  of 
!    our  own  thinkers. 

The  influence  of  German  literature  n])on  the  student,  in 
this  connection,  merits  a  moment's  consideration.     At  thia 


OF   ENGLISH    STUDIES.  75 

late  day,  no  respectable  scholar  will  deny  that  this  litera- 
ture ranks  among  the  very  first,  as  a  source  of  knowledge 
and  an  instrument  of  culture.  Probably  none  exerts  a 
more  profound  influence  upon  the  stuff  and  substance  of 
literature,  upon  thoug-iit  itself,  than  this.  Eminently 
speculative  and  thoughtful,  it  seizes  with  a  strong  grasp 
upon  the  laws  of  thought,  and  habits  of  thought,  and 
style  of  thought,  and  exerts  a  wonderfully  modify- 
ing, moulding,  and  internally  revolutionizing  power. 
But  it  cannot  safely  be  made  the  principal  instrument  of 
education.  It  must  be  kept  in  check  and  subordination 
by  others.  Its  strong  spiritualizing  tendency  must  be 
counteracted  by  opposite  tendencies;  and  this  in  order 
that  this  very  spiritualizing  tendency  itself  may  do  its 
best  work.  For  this  bias,  if  left  to  run  on  indefinitely,  re- 
sults, as  the  history  of  some  of  the  most  interesting  schools 
of  philosophy  and  literature  shows,  in  the  sheerest  and 
merest  materialism.  Any  tendency  if  excessive,  ainiihi- 
lates  itself  by  turning  into  its  own  contrary.  And  the 
Englishman,  especially,  is  liable  to  this  result.  If  his 
large  roundabout  sense  and  sober  reason  are  once  over- 
mastered by  the  tendency  and  influence  in  question,  he 
becomes  the  most  ultra  of  spiritualists.  The  wines  and 
luxury  of  the  south  of  Europe  entering  into  the  strong 
and  coarse  nature  of  the  northern  tribes  generated  an  in- 
toxication and  a  debauch,  at  which  the  Southron  himself 
stood  airhast.  When  Caliban  feels  the  fumes,  the  drunk- 
eiiness  is  absolute. 

In  furnishing  a  proper  counteraction  to  tliis  tendency, 
and  to  all  other  forctign  tendencies,  and  tluis  j)reserving 
the  true  nationality  of  the  scholar,  the  works  in  (piestiou 
arc  invaluable  and  indispensable.  They  are  by  no  means 
destitute  of  8})eculation,  but  they  are  remarkable  for  their 
sobriety  and  sense.     Even  when  they  verge  strongly  in  the 


76  THE    INFLUENCE    AND   METHOD 

direction  of  materialisui,  they  are  valuable  aids  ;  especially 
in  the  reference  now  nnder  consideration.  Take,  for 
example,  tlie  treatise  of  Locke  on  the  Conduct  of  the 
Understanding-,  the  best  tract  yet  written  upon  education. 
It  is  less  a  model  product  of  the  English  mind  than  some 
others  in  the  list,  because  it  sprang  from  a  root  that  had 
too  strong  a  tang  of  earth ;  because  it  grew  out  of  an  ex- 
travagantly sensuous  system  of  philosophy,  and  a  culture 
corresponding  thereto.  But  it  furnishes  a  most  excellent 
and  efficacious  corrective  to  a  wan  and  bloodless  hyper- 
spirituality.  If  the  Englisliman  or  Anglo-American  has 
weakened  himself  by  too  much  dreaming  over  such  inter- 
esting, but,  after  all,  somewhat  effeminate  products,  as 
those  of  the  German  Novalis,  or  the  French  Chateaubriand 
and  Lamartine,  or  the  English  Tennyson,  let  him  trans- 
fuse into  his  veins  the  blood  of  John  Locke.  If  he  has 
become  thin  and  pale  in  the  process,  let  him  feed  upon 
the  pulp  and  brawn  of  as  masculine  a  mind  as  ever  lived. 
The  preservation  of  nationality,  in  all  respects  and  rela- 
tions, is  of  the  highest  importance  in  this  age  of  the  world, 
when  the  ease,  and  frequency,  and  intimacy  of  inter- 
communication are  erasing  some  lines  that  ought  to  be 
scored  still  more  deeply  rather  than  obliterated.  The 
extinction  of  nationality,  like  the  extinction  of  individu- 
ality, would  be  the  death  of  all  the  great  interests  of  the 
liuman  race.  The  confusion  of  tongues,  and  the  origina- 
tion of  many  languages,  though  primarily  a  curse,  yet 
like  the  curse  of  labor,  brings  many  blessings  in  its  train. 
Tiie  formation  of  nations  and  of  languages  has  unques- 
tionably contri])uted  to  a  more  profound  and  exhaustive 
development  of  the  fallen  human  soul,  than  could  have 
been  attained  without  it.  And  thefurther  jorogress  of  the 
race  in  art,  in  science,  in  literature,  in  philosophy,  and  in 
religion,   is  dependent  upon   the   preservation,   and   the 


OF   ENGLISH   STUDIES.  77 

quickening  collision,  of  this  variety  in  unity.  The  mo- 
ment a  mind  loses  its  nationality,  it  loses  its  charm  and 
power  for  other  minds  ;  even  for  that  other  mind  in  which 
it  has  servilely  sunk  its  own  nationality. 

By  this  thoughtful  and  prolonged  perusal  of  the  pro- 
ducts of  the  master-minds  of  the  literature,  the  student 
will  preserve  and  strengthen  what  is  national  and  idio- 
matic in  his  mental  structure,  while  at  the  same  time  he 
will  more  genially  appreciate,  and  heartily  relish,  what  is 
national  and  idiomatic  in  other  literatures.  And,  what  is 
not  less  important,  he  will  be  storing  his  intellect  with 
the  best  sense  and  reason  of  the  nation  to  which  he  be- 
longs ;  lie  will  be  plantiug  the  seeds  and  germs  of  all 
noble  and  ennobliug  truths,  thereby  preparing  himself  to 
be  an  orii^inal  and  influential  thinker  and  author  in  his 
own  day  and  generation.  For  the  words  of  Chaucer  are 
as  true  now  as  ever : 


Out  of  the  oldc  fieldes,  as  men  saithe, 

Cometh  all  this  newe  corn  fro  yere  to  yere  ; 

And  out  of  olde  bookes,  in  good  faithe, 

Cometh  all  this  newe  science,  that  men  ler  j. 


J 


THE    ETHICAL  THEOEY   OF  RHETOEIC    AND 

ELOQUENCE.* 


The  proper  product  of  Rhetoric  is  Eloquence,  and  the 
pui'pose  of  a  rhetorical  education  is  to  produce  an  elo- 
quent thinker,  and  an  eloquent  writer  or  sj^eaker.  So  far 
as  it  comes  short  of  this,  therefore,  Rhetoric  conies  short 
of  its  true  end. 

Hence  it  becomes  important  to  inqnire,  first  of  all,  into 
the  essential  nature  of  Eloquence  itself  ;  and,  particularly, 
to  define  it  in  such  a  maimer  as  to  detect  all  false  pro- 
ducts, and  preclude  all  specious  methods  and  models.  For 
nothing  exerts  a  more  injurious  influence  upon  the  taste,  the 
studies,  and  the  mental  habits  of  an  educated  man  than  a 
false  idea  of  Eloquence.  All  educated  men  desire  to  be 
eloquent,  and  at  times  make  greater  or  less  effort  to  be  so. 
An  eloquent  man  is,  universally,  an  object  of  admiration 
and  of  imitation.  The  idea  of  Eloquence  is,  consequently, 
one  that  exerts  a  higiily  formative  and  modifying  influ- 
ence upon  both  individual  and  national  culture.  When 
an  educated  man  has  been  seized  by  this  idea,  when  he 
has  become  possessed  with  the  desire  and  the  aim  to  influ- 
ence public  opinion  by  free  and  fluent  speech,  how  won- 
derfully are  all  his  thoughts,  and   feelings,  and  acquii-e- 

*  Publishefl  in  1859,  aa  an  introduction  to  the  writer's  tianslation  of 
Theremin's  Die  Bcredsamkeit  eiue  Tugend. 


80  THE   ETHICAL   THEORY 

nients  pressed  into  the  service  of  it.  If  he  has  the  trne 
idea,  lie  ahnost  invariably  becomes  eloquent ;  if  he  has 
tbe  false  idea,  he  invariably  becomes  over-ornainentcd, 
and  <4-litterin<;-,  and  dei;'enerates  into  inflation,  and  boni- 
l)ast,  —  so  energetic  and  intlnential  is  the  idea  itself, 
whether  truly  or  falsely  apprehended.  It  enters  the 
mind  with  an  interest  and  inflnence  peculiar  to  itself,  and 
works  there  with  all  the  potency  of  a  plastic  principle. 
The  thought  of  becoming  a  philosopher,  or  a  poet,  or  an 
artist,  or  a  man  of  science,  when  once  formed,  indeed 
exerts  a  controlling  influence  upon  the  whole  intellectual 
life  ;  but  the  thought  of  becoming  an  eloquent  man,  a 
man  who  "  wields  at  will  the  fierce  democracie  and  shakes 
the  arsenal,"  exerts  an  overmastering  influence,  so  that  the 
mind  either  becomes  the  most  passionate  of  the  passion- 
ate, or  else  the  feeblest  of  the  feeble,  according  to  the 
truth  or  falsity  of  its  idea  of  Eloquence,  and  its  ideal  of 
an  Orator. 

I.  In  proceeding  to  discuss  the  true  nature  and  essen- 
tial pj'ojyer'ties  of  Eloquence,  it  is  deserving  of  notice,  that 
nearly  as  many  definitions  have  been  given  of  Eloquence, 
as  of  Poetry,  and  so  far  as  a  perfectly  exhaustive  defini- 
tion is  concerned,  with  about  the  same  success.  Perhaps 
no  one  definition  that  shall  include  all  the  essential  quali- 
ties of  what  are  strictly  vital  products  of  the  human 
mind  can  be  given.  We  must  be  content  to  reach  the 
inward  nature  of  Poetry,  and  of  Eloquence,  by  approxi- 
mations ;  by  several  definitions,  each  of  which  contem- 
plates some  particular  aspect  of  the  subject,  and  specifies 
some  peculiar  characteristic  omitted  by  the  others.  The 
more  uiechanical  and  common  products  of  the  hvurian 
understanding  may  often  be  clearly  comprehended  in  a 
single  conce])tion,  and  fully  defined  in  one  statement ; 
but  its  rarer,  richer,  and  more  living  productions,  such  as 


OF   KIIETOKIC    AND    ELOQUENCE.  81 

Poetiy,  and  Eloquence,  being  more  mysterious  in  their 
origin,  are  more  difficnlt  of  comprehension,  and  conse- 
quently of  definition.  ^Ve  may  lay  it  down  as  a  general 
rule  that  in  proportion  as  a  product  takes  its  origin  in  the 
more  salient,  impulsive,  and  original  agencies  of  the  mind  ; 
in  proportion  as  it  is  less  the  work  of  mere  experience, 
and  trial,  like  a  product  of  useful  art,  or  of  mere  memory 
and  classification,  like  a  manual  of  science  ;  in  proportion 
as  its  nature  is  living,  and  its  origin  is  fresh,  will  it  be 
more  difficult  to  bring  it  within  the  limits  of  a  concise 
and  full  definition.  Like  the  definition  of  life  itself,  the 
definition  of  Poetry,  and  Eloquence,  must  be  an  approxi- 
mation only. 

Socrates,  according  to  Cicero,*  was  wont  to  say  that  all 
men  speak  eloquently  when  they  have  a  thorough  knowl- 
edge of  their  subject.  The  duty  and  office  of  Rhetoric,  and 
hence  of  Eloquence,  according  to  Bacon,f  is  to  apply  rea- 
son to  imagination  for  the  better  moving  of  the  will. 
Style,  says  Buifon — by  which  he  means  an  eloquent  style 
— is  the  man  himself :  a  definition  corresponding  with  the 
remark  of  Pascal,  that  a  simple  and  natural  style,  the  elo- 
quence of  nature,  enchants  us  for  the  reason  that  while 
we  are  looking  for  an  author  we  find  a  man.  Eloquence, 
says  D'Alembert,  :j;  is  the  ability  to  cause  a  sentiment 
with  whicli  the  mind  is  deeply  penetrated  to  pass  with 
rapidity  into  the  souls  of  others,  and  imprint  itself  there 
with  force  and  energy.  Eloquence,  says  Campbell,  § 
adopting  the  definition  of  Quinlilian,  is  that  art  or  talent 
by  which  the  discourse  is  adapted  to  its  end,  and  the  end 
of  discourse  is  to  move  the  will. 

•  Do  Oratore,  I.  14. 

f  Advaiiccincnt  of  Learning,  Book  II. 

X  ReflectionH  8ur  I'clocutiou  oratoire. 

§  PhiloBophy  of  Rhetoric,  Book  I.  Chap.  1. 

'4* 


82  THE    ETHICAL    THEORY 

If  we  examine  these  definitions  we  shall  find  that  the^ 
all  presuppose  a  common  nature  and  properties  in  Elo- 
quence, and  are  all  of  them  approximate  definitions  of  it. 
Kcither  of  them  is  sufficient  of  itself  to  exhaust  the  sub- 
ject; perhaps  all  of  them  together  are  insufiicient;  but 
they  all  look  one  way,  and  give  the  mind  of  the  inquirer 
one  general  direction.  They  all  teach  or  imply,  that  truth 
is  the  substance,  and  principle,  of  all  genuine  Eloquence, 
— truth  dearly  J•)crt?^^w<?c^,  deeply  felt^  and  strongly  ex- 
pres.<^ed.  Men  are  eloquent  in  proportion  as  they  thor- 
oughly know  their  subject,  says  Socrates.  Eloquence  is 
truth  all  aglow  and  practically  effective  in  a  human  soul ; 
it  is  reason  in  the  forms  of  the  imagination  in  order  to 
influence  the  will ;  says  Bacon.  It  is  the  cooperation  of 
the  understanding  with  the  imagination  and  the  passions, 
in  order  to  carry  the  will,  say  Quintilian  and  Campbell. 
Eloquence  is  truth  felt  and  transferred  to  others  ;  it  is  the 
transfer  of  the  orator's  consciousness  into  the  auditor's 
consciousness ;  says  D'Alembert. 

All  these  definitions  teach  that  actual  verity  is  the  sub- 
stance of  Eloquence,  and  that  thi'ough  the  transformation 
which  it  undergoes  by  passing  through  an  earnest  and  elo- 
quent mind  its  final  effect  is  to  carry  the  whole  man,  head, 
heart  and  will,  along  with  it.  This  caj/ture  of  men's 
minds,  this  mental  r/iovement  in  speaker  and  hearers,  this 
strearaiiig  of  thought  and  feeling  to  an  outward  end, 
seems  to  be  inseparably  connected,  in  all  these  definitions, 
^\'ith  Eloquence  as  different  from  other  forms  of  discourse. 
"WHiile  in  the  essay,  the  historical  narrative,  or  the  philo- 
sophical disquisition,  the  thought  more  or  less  moves  in  a 
circle,  returning  back  upon  itself,  and  thus  forming  a 
wider  expanse,  in  the  oration,  the  thought  is  ever  rnsliing 
onward  in  a  deep  narrow  channel,  like  a  river  to  the  main. 
We  are  speaking,  of  course,  of  an  ideal  or  perfect  oration  ; 


OF   RHETORIC    AND    ELOQUENCE.  83 

and  bearing  this  in  mind,  we  may  say  that  in  proportion 
as  the  mind  of  the  orator  is  iraprogressive  in  its  action,  it 
ceases  to  be  eloquent  in  its  action  and  influence.  A  mind 
that  is  continually  eddying  ;  that  is  inclined  to  dwell  long, 
either  upon  a  particular  thought,  or  upon  the  expression 
of  it,  either  upon  a  bright  idea,  or  a  beautiful  figure; 
must  break  up  this  habit,  and  overcome  this  disposition, 
before  it  can  create  that  strong  rushing  current,  that  over- 
whelming, overbearing  torrent  in  a  discourse,  whicli  under 
tiie  name  of  Seti^or?;?  the  Greeks  regarded  as  the  height  of 
Eloquence.  By  this  term,  which  was  applied  particularly 
to  the  eloquence  of  Domostlienes,  the  Greeks  intended  to  de- 
note that  overpowering  vehemence,  in  the  exercise  of  the 
mental  powers,  which  results  from  a  clear  consciousness  of 
the  truth  and  the  right,  united  with  a  glowing  fiery  inter- 
est for  it.  This  vehemence  of  soul,  this  onward  sweeping 
rush  ill  a  channel  which  the  mind  has  worn  into  a  subject, 
and  wliich  it  is  continually  wearing  deeper,  is  preclusive 
of  all  retrograde  movements,  and  of  all  stationary  atti* 
tudes.  Even  if  the  subject  calls  in  a  great  amount  of 
argumentative  or  explanatory  matter,  this  current  draws 
it  all  into  its  own  volume,  so  that  it  accelerates  rather  than 
impedes  its  mighty  flow.  "  In  his  oration  for  the  crown," 
remarks  one,*  "  Demosthenes  must  have  had  as  cumbrous 
a  satchel  as  any  bearer  of  the  green  bag  in  our  courts  of 
law.  lie  brings  forward  a  great  mass  of  testimonies, 
written  and  oi-al  laws  of  Athens,  decrees  of  foreign  towns 
and  of  the  Amphictyonic  council,  and  records  of  history, 
all  exhibited  and  discussed  with  the  utmost  force  and 
clearness.  J>ut  thnrngh  the  whole  process,  there  is  an 
under-current  and  moving  jiower  of  ]>assion  and  eloquence 
tliat  carries  us  forward  to  a  finul   ;uid  unavoidable  result. 

*  Marhh's  Ilemaina  :  Tract  on  Eloquence. 


84  THE   ETHICAL   TIIEOKY 

It  is  as  though  we  were  embarked  upon  a  mighty  river. 
All  is  animation  and  energy  aronnd,  and  we  gaze  with  a 
momentary  reverie  upon  the  deep  and  transparent  waters 
beneath.  But  even  while  we  admire,  the  current  grows 
deeper  and  deeper,  and  we  are  unconsciously  hurried  on- 
ward with  increasing  and  irresistible  power." 

An  eloquent  mind,  then,  is  a  mind  under  motion.  It  is 
a  mind  moving  forwai'd,  under  the  influence  of  clear 
knowledge  and  deep  feeling,  with  constantly  accelerated 
motion,  and  constantly  increasing  momentum,  to  a  final 
end,  which  is  always  a  practical  one.  Eloquence  itself, 
then,  is  thought  with  an  impulse  in  it,  thought  with  a  drift 
and  rush  in  it.  Eloquence  is,  as  we  instinctively  denom- 
inate it,  ^fioodj^ 

Without  dwelling  longer  upon  these  definitions,  and 
others  that  have  been  given  of  Eloquence,  we  proceed 

*  "Hazlitt,"  says  De  Quincey,  "was  not  eloqiient,  because  he  waa 
diKCoatinuous.  No  man  can  be  eloquent  whose  thoughts  are  abrupt,  in- 
Bulated,  and  (to  borrow  an  impressive  word  from  Coleridge)  non-sequa- 
cious. Eloquence  resides  not  in  separate  or  fractional  ideas,  but  in  the 
relation  of  manifold  ideas,  and  in  the  mode  of  their  evolution  from  each 
other.  It  is  not  enough  that  tbe  ideas  should  be  many,  and  their  re- 
lations coherent ;  the  main  condition  lies  in  the  key  of  the  evolution, 
in  the  law  of  the  succession.  The  elements  are  nothing  without  the 
atmosphere  that  moulds  and  the  dynamic  forces  that  combine.  Now, 
Hazlitt's  brilliancy  is  seen  chiefly  in  separate  splinterings  of  phrase  or 
image  which  throw  upon  the  eye  a  vitreous  scintillation  for  a  moment, 
but  spread  no  deep  suffusions  of  color,  and  distribute  no  masses  of 
mighty  shadow.  A  flash,  a  solitary  flash,  and  all  is  gone."  This  re- 
mark of  De  Quincey  applies  with  force  to  an  American  writer  whose 
rhetorical  care  and  effort  are  unquestionably  great,  but  mi.sapplied. 
Emerson,  much  more  than  Hazlitt,  is  discontinuous  and  fractional. 
His  literary  work  is  a  mosaic,  and  not  a  growth.  It  illustrates  the  re- 
mark of  Bulfon,  that  "it  is  from  the  fear  of  losing  isolated  fugitive 
thoughts,  and  from  the  desire  of  introducing,  everywhere,  striking 
traits,  that  there  are  so  many  compositions  formed  of  inlaid  work,  and 
so  few  that  are  founded  at  a  single  cast.  Nothing  is  more  opposed  to 
warmth  of  style. ' ' 


OF   RHETORIC    AND   ELOQUENCE.  85 

now  to  a  consideration  of  that  particular  one,  upon  wliicli 
Theremin  founds  his  rhetorical  system.  Eloquence,  says 
Theremin,  is  a  virtue.  This  definition  differs  from  the 
others  that  have  been  quoted,  more  in  appearance  than  in 
reality.  It  does  not,  as  its  author  remarks,  differ  essen- 
tially from  the  definition  given  by  the  elder  Cato,  and 
handed  down  to  us  with  approbation  by  Quintilian  ;  and 
it  coincides  with  the  general  doctrine  taught  by  the  more 
profound  writers  upon  Eloquence,  in  all  ages, — all  of 
whom  have  recognized  the  moral  element  as  the  essential 
one  in  this  species  of  intellectual  products.  Stated,  how- 
ever, in  this  brief  and  epigrammatic  form.  Eloquence  seems 
to  become  identical  with  morality,  and  the  author  in  one 
place  actually  speaks  of  Rhetoric  as  a  part  of  Morals.* 
By  this,  however,  it  is  conceived,  he  did  not  mean  to  im- 
ply that  Eloquence  is  merely  and  only  a  moral  virtue,  and 
is  sufficiently  defined  when  it  is  put  into  the  list  of  vir- 
tues, along  with  temperance,  or  honesty,  or  veracity.  Per- 
haps the  real  meaning  of  the  author  would  be  more  pre- 
cisely expressed,  by  saying  that  Eloquence  is  an  intellect- 
ual virtue.  It  has  a  comm(;n  origin  with  the  moral 
virtues,  in  the  resolute  action  of  the  moral  force  or 
character  of  the  man,  and,  so  far  as  the  point  of  ultimate 
origin  is  concerned,  may  therefore  be  denominated  vir- 
tuous, or  of  the  nature  of  virtue.  The  theory  of  Thereuiin 
is,  that  all  true  Eloquence  springs  fn^m  integrity  and 
strength  of  character;  that  the  princtiploand  the  power  by 
which  the  several  faculties  of  the  mind  concerned  in  the 
production  of  Eloquence  are  actuated  and  guided  is  the 
voluntary  principle  and  power,  and  hence  that  the  pro- 
duct, in  its  ultimate  and  essential  nature,  must  be  moral 
Let  us  explain  in  detail,  that  the  theory  may  be  under 

^  *  Book  I.,  Chap.  xiv. 


86  THE   ETHICAL   THEORY 

stood.  In  the  production  of  an  eloquent  oration,  the 
anderstandinsi;,  and  the  imagination  are  employed.  By 
the  iirst  mentioned  faculty,  truth  simple  and  abstract  is 
presented  to  the  understanding  of  the  hearer.  By  the 
second,  this  same  trutli  is  taken  out  of  this  abstract  and 
intellectual  form,  and  put  into  an  imaginative  form  for 
the  imagination  of  the  hearer.  Now,  it  is  plain  that  the 
excellence  of  the  oration  depends  upon  the  presence  in  it, 
of  some  power  or  principle  that  shall  swallow  up  into 
the  unity  of  its  own  life  all  these  separate  processes  of 
the  understanding  and  imagination,  and  thereby  become 
that  vehement  and  terrible  energy  which,  we  have  seen, 
according  to  the  Greek  definition,  is  the  reality  and  vital- 
ity of  Eloquence.  The  unity  of  the  oration,  moreover, 
depends  upon  the  proportionate  and  harmonious  exercise 
of  these  diverse  faculties.  Any  excess  in  the  functions  of 
the  understanding,  e.  g.,  will  be  to  the  injury  of  those  of 
the  inuigination.  The  oration,  in  this  case,  must  either 
lose  its  unity,  or  else  give  up  its  oratorical  character  and 
pretensions,  and  be  converted  into  a  philosophic  essay. 
And  any  excess  in  the  action  of  the  imagination  will 
undul}'^  repress  that  of  the  understanding,  and  convert  the 
oraticm  into  a  poem. 

Kow,  that  power  by  which  each  of  these  faculties  is  to 
be  concentrated  and  governed,  so  that  there  shall  be  an 
even  force  and  a  just  proportion  in  their  co- working,  is 
the  will  of  the  orator.  lie  is  to  repress  an  undue  tenden- 
cy to  ratiocination,  by  moral  determination.  He  is  to  re- 
press an  undue  poetic  tendency,  by  moral  determination. 
And  let  it  not  be  thought  that  only  a  slight  and  feeble 
exercise  of  the  self-controlling  power  is  needed  in  the 
origination  of  this  so-styled  virtue  of  Eloquence ;  that 
but  little  moral  energy  and  stern  force  of  character  is 
required  in  order  to  the  highest  eloquence.     How  often 


OF   EHETORIC    AND    ELOQUENCE.  87 

does  it  happen  that  the  oration  degenerates  (for  in  this 
reference  it  is  degeneration)  into  the  abstract  essay,  oi 
the  over-ornamented  prose-poem,  solely  because  there 
was  not  enough  of  moral  strength,  not  enough  of  will, 
in  the  orator,  to  compel  all  his  acquisitions,  and  all  his 
tei)dcncies,  into  subservience  of  that  practical  end,  the 
actuation  of  his  hearers,  which  is  the  ultimate  end  of  Elo- 
quence. Oftentimes,  as  much  self-control  is  needed  to 
mortify  a  strong  logical  propensity,  in  order  that  it  may 
not  damage  or  destroy  a  rhetorical  process,  as  is  needed- 
in  order  to  mortif  v  a  lust  of  the  flesh.  And  still  more 
often,  as  much  force  of  character  is  needed  to  restrain  a 
luxuriant  imagination,  in  order  that  it  may  not  clog  and 
stop  the  onward  movement  of  the  oration  by  excessive 
illustration  and  ornament,  as  is  needed  in  order  to  restrain 
an  animal  pastiion.  In  short,  that  vanity,  that  self -feeling, 
which  would  draw  off  the  orator  from  the  practical  end 
oi  his  discourse  to  the  undue  display  of  his  logic,  if  his 
mind  is  predominantly  philosophic,  or  to  an  undue  em- 
ployment of  the  poetic  element,  if  his  nature  is  predomi- 
nantly imaginative,  requires  for  its  conquest  and  extirpa- 
tion, precisely  the  same  kiiul  of  moral  force,  force  of  will, 
that  is  needed  in  the  supjiression  of  vice,  or  in  the  forma- 
tion of  any  of  the  strictly  so-called  virtues. 

Now,  it  is  in  this  reference  that  Eloquence  is  styled  a 
virtue,  80  far  as  the  princi[)le  from  which  it  proceeds, 
and  the  impulse  b}'  which  it  is  impelled,  are  concerned. 
Eloquence  is  ethical,  rather  than  philosophic,  or  aesthetic. 
It  is  the  posirion  of  Theremin,  that  Eloquence  is  more 
strictly  of  tlic  nature  oi'  vii-tue,  than  ol'  tin;  nature  of 
science,  or  of  the  nature  of  art.  Its  essential  quality  and 
properties,  he  contends,  are  more  properly  ethical,  than 
scientitic,  or  artistic.  Neither  a  sciiuitilic  nor  an  artistic 
talent   can    l)ecome    the    living    fountain    of    Eloquence. 


88  THE    KTIIIC.VL    THEORY 

Only  a  moral  force  can.  AUlioui^h  both  a  pliilosophic 
and  an  artistic  process  pi'operly  and  necessarily  enter  into 
that  coni[)lex  mental  action  of  which  Eloquence  is  the 
product,  yet  neither  of  them  is  the  fundainental  process. 
AV^e  must  look  for  this  in  the  moral  process  which  spring-s 
out  of  the  character  of  the  orator;  which  involves  his 
earnestness,  his  sincerity,  his  honest}'  of  conviction,  his 
consciousness  of  the  truth,  and  his  love  for  it.  These 
moral  elements  must  first  exist,  or  thci-e  can  be  no  Elo- 
quence. In  the  same  sense,  then,  that  the  orator,  accord- 
ing to  Cato  and  Quintilian,  is  a  good  man,  is  Eloquence 
a  virtue.  Not  that  every  good  man  is  eloquent,  or  that 
every  virtue  is  ipso  facto  Eloquence  (though  wc  often  say 
of  the  virtues,  as  they  shine  out  in  human  character,  that 
they  are  eloquent) ;  but  no  man  is  eloquent  who  is  desti- 
tute of  moral  force  of  character,  and  no  discourse  is  elo- 
quent tliat  is  not  prevaded  witli  a  moral  earnestness  that 
is  higher  than  any  mere  scientitic  talent  or  aesthetic 
feeling. 

The  truth  which  there  is  in  Theremin's  detinition  may 
be  seen,  again,  by  considering  the  difference  between  an 
Oration  and  a  product  of  Fine  Art.  According  to  the 
theory  of  Theremin,  Eloquence  is  not  strictly  a  fine  art. 
It  is  no  more  one  of  the  fine  arts  because  it  contains  an 
aesthetic  element,  than  it  is  one  of  the  sciences  because  it 
contains  a  philosophic  element.  It  is  taken  out  of  the 
department  of  mere  and  pure  art,  by  the  jpractical  and 
outward  end  which  it  has  in  view.  For  if  there  is  any- 
thing settled  in  the  theory  of  art,  it  is,  that  an  aesthetic 
product  has  no  practical  end  out  of  itself.  Art,  as  such, 
has  no  utility,  or  morality.  Its  productions  exist  for  them- 
selves, and  not  for  any  object  other  than  themselves.  We 
must  not  go  beyond  them,  and  look  for  a  practical  or 
beneficial  influence  exerted  by  them  upon  the  minds  of 


OF   KIIETOEIC   AND    ELOQUENCE.  89 

men,  in  order  to  decide  whether  tliey  are  excellent  in  tlieir 
kind  or  not.  Ilence  art  cannot  become  religion,  or  even 
morality.  If  a  painting  or  a  statne  is  beautiful,  we  can- 
not deny  its  ay'tistic  exceWence.  Whether  it  is  useful,  or 
whether  it  is  moral,  are  questions  for  philosophy  and  relig- 
ion, but  not  for  art.  The  artist,  unlike  the  philanthropist, 
or  the  orator,  works  for  his  own  gratification  solely.  His 
work  has  no  end  but  the  embodiment  of  a  beautiful  idea. 
As  an  artist  merel//,  he  is  indifferent  to  the  practical 
effects  that  may  result.  The  work  of  ai-t  is  addressed 
solely  to  the  resthetic  sense.  If  it  were  addressed  to  the 
cognitive  powers,  solely,  it  would  be  a  scientific  work. 
If  it  were  addressed  to  the  moral  or  religious  nature,  sole- 
ly, it  would  be  a  religious  work. 

It  is  true,  indeed,  that  a  "work  of  art  may  make  a  moral 
impression,  and  as  matter  of  fact  the  highest  works  in  this 
department  invariably  do.  It  is  true  that  the  Apollo  may 
elevate  the  soul  of  the  beholder,  and  the  Madonna  may 
soften  and  humanize  it,  but  neither  of  them,  as  works  of 
art,  owed  their  origin  to  any  such  practical  and  moral 
aim.  Fine  art  is  its  own  end.  It  is  self-sufficing,  self- 
inchided,  and  irreferent.  If  it  has  ever  contributed  to  the 
intellectual  or  moral  improvement  of  man,  this  was  a 
happy  accident,  and  not  a  predetermined  and  foreseen 
result. 

Bat  that  morality  whicli  thus  stands  in  no  inward  and 
necessary  connection  witli  art  constitutes  the  very  essential 
princi[)le  of  Eloquence.  The  oration,  unlike  a  painting 
or  a  statue,  aims  t(j  exert  a  nioi-al  inlbiencc  upon  a  moral 
agent.  It  seeks  to  work  a  change,  more  or  less  deep  and 
extensive,  in  the  state  of  man's  active  jmwers,  employing 
his  cognitive  and  imaginative  faculties  as  mere  means  and 
Mujdia.  The  orator  cannot,  like  the  artist,  isolate  hims(;lf 
fn^ini  all  outward  circumstances,  and  lind  the  goal  of  liis 


90  TlIK    ETIIIOAL    TIIIlOKY 

efforts  in  the  serene  and  complacent  embodiment  of  his 
idea  in  a  form  of  beauty,  without  troubling  himself  in  the 
least  about  the  influence  lie  may  exert.  The  orator  is  a 
man  of  moral  influence,  and  of  moral  impression,  upon 
moral  agents,  or  he  is  nothing.  If,  then,  the  term  virtue 
denotes,  generally,  a  product  of  the  wiU,  and  not  of  the 
intellect  merely,  or  the  imagination  merely,  is  not  Elo- 
quence a  virtue  ?  If  that  agency  of  the  soul  be  virtuous, 
or  of  the  nature  of  virtue,  which  has  an  outward  aim  ;  the 
aim,  viz.,  to  exert  a  legitimate  influence  upon  the  charac- 
ter and  actions  of  men  ;  is  not  Eloquence  a  virtue  'i  Is 
not  this  earnest,  moral,  and  practical  product  of  the  human 
mind  much  more  pi'operly  denominated  a  virtue  than  an 
art? 

To  place  the  definition  given  by  Theremin  in  another 
aspect,  we  may  say  that  Eloquence  is  a  virtue  of  the  intel- 
lect as  modified  by  the  will.  When  the  understanding 
merely  follows  its  own  structure  and  laws  ;  when  its  action 
is  constitutional  merely,  and  unmodified  by  any  reference 
to  an  auditor,  or  to  an  outward  impression  upon  other 
minds ;  the  product  is  logic,  and  this  action  of  the  under- 
standing is  scientific.  When  the  imagination  merely  fol- 
lows its  own  nature  and  law,  the  product  is  poetry,  or 
some  other  work  of  fine  art,  and  this  action  of  the  imagi- 
nation is  sesthctic.  In  both  of  these  instances,  the  intel- 
lectual faculty  is  left  to  the  guidance  and  impulse  of  its 
own  meclianism.  The  will  exercises  no  modifying  in- 
fluence in  either  case,  and  consequently  there  is  no  moral 
element,  nothing  virtuous  or  of  the  natui-e  of  virtue, 
in  these  species  of  intellectual  activity.  It  is  true  that 
the  subject  matter  of  both  philosophy  and  art  may  be 
moral,  but  the  mental  process  itself  cannot  be  so  charac- 
terized. It  is  a  purely  constitutional  process,  not  deriving 
its  quality  in  the  least  from  the  voluntary  j)Ower,  from  the 


OF   RHETORIC    AND   ELOQUENCE.  91 

character  of  the  individual,  or  even  being  in  the  least 
modified  by  it.  The  process  in  the  one  case  is  purely  logi- 
cal or  scientific,  and  in  the  other  purely  artistic. 

But  Eloquence  has  a  different  origin  from  either  science  or 
art.  It  results,  not  from  the  isolated  action  of  a  particular 
faculty,  like  the  understanding,  or  the  imagination,  but 
from  the  interpenetration  and  cooperation  of  these  intellec- 
tual powers,  under  the  sway  and  actuation  of  the  voluntary 
force.  The  degree  in  which  each  faculty  shall  work,  as  we 
have  already  remarked,  is  fixed  by  the  self-determination 
of  the  orator,  and  the  acme  of  Eloquence  is  seen  in  the 
rusli,  in  one  resistless  volume,  of  all  the  cognitive  and 
imaginative  powers  in  the  unity  of  the  moral  will.  The 
combined  action  of  these  powers,  in  this  instance,  unlike 
their  isolated  action  in  the  production  of  the  philosophic 
essay,  or  the  poem,  is  moral,  and  therefore  of  the  nature 
of  virtue.  The  will  interpenetrates  the  logical  and  imagi 
native  processes  in  the  mind  of  the  orator,  and  thus  ren- 
ders them  ethical.  Eloquence,  in  this  aspect,  is  seen  to  be 
the  virtuous  action  of  the  human  intellect^  as  distinguished 
from  that  virtuous  action  of  the  isolated  human  will,  to 
whicli  the  tei-m  "  virtue  "  is  more  strictly  and  commonly 
applied.  There  is  volimtary  action  in  both  cases,  and 
hence  the  epithet  "  virtuous  "  belongs  to  both  ;  but  in  the 
case  of  a  virtue,  commonly  so  called,  the  action  is  confined 
to  the  will  itself,  while  in  the  case  of  Eloquence  it  is 
action  of  the  will  in  and  htj  the  powers  of  understanding 
and  imaginati(jn.  The  virtue  of  patience,  e.  g.,  is  the 
]>roduct  of  the  is(jlated  action  of  the  will,  just  as  logic 
i.s  the  j)roduct  of  the  isolated  action  of  the  understanding. 
I'atienco  is  the  product  of  the  will  operating  upon  iUelf^ 
Bubduing  its  own  restiveness,  and  therefore  is  sim|)ly  a 
])articular  habit  ui  the  will.  JJut  the  virtue  of  Eloquence 
ih  the  product  of  the  will    as   it  operates   upon,  and  in. 


92  THE    ETHICAL    THEORY 

other  inental  faculties,  for  the  purpose  of  exerting  an  in- 
Hueuce  upon  the  will  of  others.  Eloquence  is  reason  and 
imagination  wrought  into  a  living  synthesis  by  the  vitality 
of  a  will,  by  the  force  of  a  strong,  deep,  and  earnest 
character. 

There  is  less  difficulty,  therefore,  in  understanding  this 
delinition  of  Theremin,  and  in  adopting  it,  if  we  do  not 
take  the  term  "  virtue  "  in  its  more  limited  and  common 
signification,  but  in  its  widest  sense,  as  denoting  a  product 
into  M'hich  tlie  moral  strength  of  the  individual,  his  force 
of  character,  enters  as  the  fundamental  quality.  And  such 
we  suj^pose  to  be  the  essential  nature  of  Eloquence.  If 
we  are  requii-ed  to  locate  it,  we  think  there  are  fewer  ob- 
jections to  placing  it  within  the  province  of  practical 
ethics,  than  in  that  of  abstract  science,  or  in  that  of  a3sthetic 
art.  As  Theremin  affirms,  that  theory  will  be  most  suc- 
cessful, will  explain  most  phenomena  and  exert  the  most 
beneficial  influence  upon  the  student,  which  assumes  that 
the  practical  and  moral  element  in  Eloquence  is  the  funda- 
mental and  dominating  one,  and  that  the  philosoj)hic 
and  aesthetic  elements  are  subsidiary  to  this.  AVe  know 
that  the  ancients,  from  whom  it  is  not  generally  safe  to 
differ  upon  subjects  like  the  one  which  we  are  considering, 
regarded  Eloquence  as  one  of  the  fine  arts,  and  assigned  it 
a  place  in  the  list  along  with  poetry,  and  painting,  and 
sculpture;  and  the  modern  world  has  generally  acquiesced 
in  their  classification.  And  yet  the  rhetorical  treatises  of 
Aristotle,  of  Longinus,  of  Cicero,  and  of  Quintilian,  con- 
tain much  that  is  ii-reconcilable  with  this  theory.  Uncon- 
sciously, the  doctrine  that  Eloquence  is  at  bottom  neither 
speculatively  philosophic,  nor  imaginatively  aesthetic,  but 
practically  moral,  creeps  into  these  treatises,  and  exerts  a 
modifvin<y  influence  throu£!;liout.  And  it  is  the  merit  of 
Theremin,  as  it  seems  to  us,  that  he  has  systematized  thia 


OF    KUETOEIC    A^^5   ELOQUENCE.  93 

etliical  view  of  Eloquence ;  that  he  has  organized  these 
materials  scattered  here  and  there  through  all  the  best 
treatises  on  the  subject,  and  wrought  them  into  the  unity 
of  a  consistent  tlieory.  Instead  of  defining  Eloquence  to 
be  a  fine  art,  and  then,  under  the  instinct  and  impulse  of 
good  sense  and  sound  feeling  beating  oif  and  away  from 
the  definition,  until  it  is  perfectly  apparent  that  there  has 
been  a  mistake  in  the  outset,  and  that  Eloquence  has 
received  a  wrong  location,  this  author  affinns  distinctly 
that  it  is  not  a  fine  art,  but  that  it  is  (for  want  of  a  better 
term)  a  virtue.  Starting  with  this  position  as  the  basis  of 
his  theorv,  he  is  not  troubled,  as  were  the  ancient  rhetori- 
cians,  by  a  conflict  between  his  theory  and  its  detailed 
unfolding  and  api>lication.  He  is  not  compelled  to  those 
statements  respecting  the  necessity  of  chai-acter,  of  integ- 
rity and  sincerity  and  earnestness,  in  the  orator,  the  neces- 
sity  of  subjecting  everything  in  the  oration  to  a  practical 
outward  end,  and  of  subordinating  philosophy  and  art 
themselves  to  the  moral  purposes  of  Eloquence,  which  are 
irreconcilable  with  the  definition  that  makes  Eloquence  a 
fine  art.  On  the  contrary,  these  statements  whicli  suggest 
tlicmsclves  so  unconsciouslj-,  and  spontaneously,  as  actually 
to  override  the  false  theory  that  has  been  assumed  by  the 
y\\{Aox\(i\^\\^2uXQ,\\\q,xq\s  covrohorations  oi  the  ethical  theory 
of  Eloquence.  As  they  grow  out  of  it,  so  they  return 
back  into  it ;  like  vigorons  shoots  which  by  inarching  are 
made  to  contribute  to  the  vigor  and  strength  of  the  parent 
stock. 

The  truthfulness  of  tlie  ethical  theory  of  Eloquence  is 
fitill  farther  eviiKX'd.  and  illustrated,  by  a  consideration  of 
its  influence  upon  the  Orator,  Here  its  excellence  and 
value  appear  in  ]>lain  view.  Here  is  the  place  of  its 
triumph.  For  evc^n  if  an  ojq)onent  should  be  able  to 
make  a  stand,  while  discussing  the  nature  of  the  theory 


94r  THE   ETHICAL    THEORY 

itself,  and  to  raise  objections  that  are  forcible,  and  diffi- 
cult to  remove,  j'et  when  its  practical  application  and 
practical  iiitlnence  come  into  consideration,  the  defender 
of  the  theory  may  speak  with  boldness  and  confidence. 
lie  really  has  the  entire  history  of  the  department  in  hia 
favor.  All  those  forcible  and  impressive  statements,  in 
ancient  and  modern  treatises  upon  rhetoric,  which  lay 
emphasis  upon  the  moral  element  in  Eloquence,  and  in 
tlie  orator  himself, — statements  that  fall  glowing  from  tfie 
mind  of  the  theorist,  when,  having  for  a  moment  left  his 
speculative  theory  behind  him,  he  speaks  more  from  the 
common  feeling,  and  the  common  sentiment,  of  mankind 
at  large  upon  this  subject, — all  such  statements,  we  say, 
come  thronging  in  upon  the  mind,  when  it  is  considering 
the  practical  influence  of  the  theory  in  question.  The 
advocate  of  the  ethical  theory  feels  that  all  these  state- 
ments legitimately  belong  to  him.^  and  to  him  alone  ;  that 
they  are  but  the  practical  and  informal  enunciation  of 
his  own  speculative  and  formal  theory.  When  he  hears 
Qiiintilian  define  the  orator  to  be  "  an  upright  man  who 
understands  speaking,"  he  thinks  he  hears  a  concrete 
annunciation  of  the  abstract  position  that  "Eloquence  is 
a  virtue,"  and  believes  that,  in  the  establishment  of  his 
theory,  he  has  only  applied  an  affirmation  to  oratory  itself, 
which  long  ago  was  applied  to  the  orator.  Su])ported 
thus,  as  he  is,  by  the  spontaneous  and  unbiassed  opinions 
of  theorizers  themselves,  he  is  the  more  confident  in  his 
belief  that  tlie  actual  application  of  the  ethical  theory  of 
Eloquence  will  only  serve  to  verify  it,  and  its  practical 
intluence  to  recommend  it,  in  the  verv  hii^hest  degree. 

1.  The  influence  of  the  ethical  theory  of  Eloquence  is 
most  excellent,  in  the  first  place,  u])on  the  studies  of  the 
Orator. 

It  is  the  natural  tendency  of  that  theory  of  Eloquence 


OF    RHETORIC    AND    ELOQUENCE.  95 

which  defines  it  to  be  a  fine  art  strictly,  to  isolate  oratory 
from  the  real  sciences,  and  the  solid  acquirements  of  the 
orator.  The  eye  is  too  intently  fixed  npon  form,  and  the 
secondary  properties  of  discourse,  because  it  is  assumed 
that  the  ultimate  end  of  Eloquence,  like  that  of  any  other 
fine  art,  is  Beauty.  The  studies  of  the  orator,  conse- 
quently, will  take  their  main  direction  from  this  theory, 
and  he  will  bestow  nndue  attention  upon  those  depart- 
ments of  human  knowledge,  and  those  species  of. literature, 
which  have  more  atilnity  with  tlie  idea  of  the  Beautiful, 
than  witli  the  ideas  of  the  True  and  the  Good.  These 
higher  ideas  will  be  made  -to  take  a  secondary  place  in  his 
mind,  and  his  culture  will  be  characterized  more  and 
more  by  superficiality,  and  lack  of  vigorous  strength.  He 
will  become  more  and  more  interested  in  works  of  art, 
and  the  lighter  forms  of  literature,  and  less  and  less  in- 
terested in  science,  philosophy,  and  theology. 

But  tlie  natural  tendency  of  that  theory  of  Eloquence 
which  regards  it  as  essentially  moral  rather  than  sesthetic  ; 
which  sets  up  for  it  an  outward  and  practical  end,  and 
does  not  for  an  instant  allow  it  an  artistic  indifference  in 
respect  to  an  outward  and  practical  impression  ;  which 
connects  Eloquence  far  more  with  tlie  ideas  of  the  True 
and  the  Good  than  with  the  idea  of  the  Beautiful, — the 
luitural  tendency,  and  strong  direct  influence,  of  such  a 
theory  of  Ehjquence  is  to  promote  the  graver  and  higher 
studies  in  the  orator.  The  more  profound  and  central 
])()wers  of  the  mind  will  be  continually  excrci.-ed, and  thus 
the  foundation  for  a  powerful  and  impressive  mental 
j^ftivitv  will  be  laid.  Such  an  orator,  like  Pericles  of  old, 
will  .study  and  meditate  upon  the  dark  problems  of  pliilo- 
eophy  and  religion,  and  while,  like  the  pati-on  (»f  ]*hidias 
and  the  decorator  of  Athens,  he  will  not  l»y  any  means  be 
indifferent  to  beauty  and  to  art  in  their  pi(.per  place,  ho 


1)6  THE    ETHICAL    THKOKY 

will  jet  derive  that  commanding  and  overwhelming  elo- 
quence,  that  Olympian  power  attributed  to  the  great 
Grecian,  from  these  loftier  themes,  these  more  profound 
departments  of  human  inquiry  and  effort.* 

2.  Again,  the  influence  of  that  theory  of  Eloquence 
which  regards  it  as  ethical,  rather  than  either  scientiflc  or 
assthetic,  is  most  excellent,  in  respect  to  tJie  viodels  of  the 
Orator. 

The  general  influence  of  the  ethical  theory  of  Eloquence 
upon  the  taste  is  to  render  it  strict  and  pure.  The  orator 
whose  mind  has  been  moulded  by  it,  naturally  selects 
models  from  the  very  highest  range  of  oratory,  and  there- 
by feels  the  veiy  choicest  influence  of  the  department. 
His  models,  consequently,  are  few  in  number,  but  they  are 
such  as  can  never  be  outgrown  and  left  behind  in  his  on- 
ward progress.  A  single  model  like  Demosthenes  contains, 
for  the  mind  that  is  prepared  for  it  by  a  strict  and  high 
theory  of  Eloquence,  more  educational  })ower  than  myriads 
of  inferior  models.  Such  a  model  is  a  standard  and  perma- 
nent one.  But  in  order  that  the  first-class  models  may 
be  apprehended  and  appreciated,  a  severe  taste  must  have 
been  eno-endered  in  tlie  student.  He  must  have  been  so 
disciplined  by  a  high,  theory  that  he  has  acquired  an  in- 
difterence  towards  second-rate  productions,  and  a  positive 
disrelish  for  those  more  glaring  and  showy  qualities  which 
are  found  in  works  that  are  for  a  day  only,  and  not  for  all 

*  Soc.  I  should  say  that  Pericles  was  the  most  accomplished  of  rhe- 
toricians. Phadr.  What  of  that  ?  Soc.  All  the  higher  arts  require 
much  discussion  and  lofty  contemplation  of  nature  ;  this  is  the  source 
of  sublimity  and  perfect  comprehensive  power.  And  this,  as  I  think, 
was  the  quality  which,  in  addition  to  his  natural  gifts,  Pericles  acquired 
from  his  happening  to  know  Anaxagoras.  He  was  imbued  with  the 
higher  philosophy,  and  attained  the  knowledge  of  mind  and  matter, 
which  was  the  favorite  theme  of  Anaxagoras,  and  from  hence  he  drew 
what  was  applicable  to  the  orator's  art. — Plato's  Phaedrus,  2G9-70. 


OF    KlIETOKIC    AXD    ELOQUENCE.  97 

time.  He  must  have  attained  such  an  intellectual  temper, 
such  a  style  and  tone  of  literary  culture,  as  can  find  pleas- 
ure only  in  those  cahnei',  grander,  and  loftier  efforts  which 
do  not  so  much  strike  and  startle  by  their  brilliancy,  as 
develop  and  stir  the  human  soul  by  their  depth,  fervor, 
and  power. 

Kow,  the  theory  in  question  tends  directly  to  the  pro- 
duction of  such  an  intellectual  taste  in  the  orator.  It  is 
a  high  and  austere  theory.  It  is  a  theorj^  wliich  checks 
extravagance,  and  prunes  luxuriance,  by  subjecting  the 
whole  oratorical  process  to  the  restraints  of  ethics.  It 
subordinates  the  beauty  of  poetry,  and  even  the  truth  of 
philosophy,  to  the  practical  ends  of  morality.  If  there  is 
any  danger  in  the  theory,  it  is  in  the  direction  of  severity 
and  intense  truthfulness.  If  there  is  any  error  in  tlie 
theory,  it  is  upon  tlie  safe  side.  It  cannot  be  denied  that 
the  entire  influence  of  it  is  to  induce  such  mental  habits, 
such  mental  tastes,  and  such  a  mental  tone,  as  both  pre- 
])are  the  student  for  a  genial  appreciation  of  the  higliest 
models,  and  a  free  and  original  reproduction  of  them. 
Tlic  mind  tliat  has  been  developed  and  trained  by  the 
ethical  theory  of  Eloquence  will  prefer  Demosthenes  t(,) 
yEschines,  Cicero  to  Uortensius,  Massillon  to  Bossuet, 
]\Iirabeau  to  Lamartine,  Burke  and  Fox  to  Sheiidan  and 
IMiillips. 

But  the  excellence  of  the  influence  exerted  by  the 
theory  in  questi(jn,  in  rendering  the  taste  pure  and  strict, 
is  seen  more  particularly  in  reference  to  current  produc- 
tions, and  current  styles  aivd  schools.  The  principal  dan- 
ger to  which  th(!  I'hetorician  or  the  orator  is  exposed 
arises  from  the  influence  of  contemi)orane(jus  rhetoric  and 
contemporaneous  elo(pience.  iJazzling  and  brilliant  but 
Biiperflcial  and  transitory  pr<*ducts  always  have  their 
day;   and   during   their  day,  minds   that   have   not  been 


98  THE   ETHICAL   THEORY 

liii^hly  trained  are  taken  captive  by  them.     Snch  minds 
become  copyists  and  mannerists  ;  and  copyists  and  man- 
nerists never  are,  and  never  can  be,  eloquent.     But  a  pure 
taste,  and  a  genuine  relish  for  the  excellences  of  those 
great  masters  and  models  which,  like  the  sun,  are  always 
the  same  in  all  time,  is  an  infallible  preservative  against 
this  pernicious  influence  of   contemporaries.     There  is  a 
stren<rth  and  reserve  in   that  intellectnal  character  which 
has  been  formed  by  high   theories,  by  the  contemplation 
of  grand  ideals,  which  no  storm  of  popular  applause,  no 
fury  of  fashion,  can  overcome  or  exhaust.     Such  a  mind 
is  self-possessed,  and  self-reliant.     Such  a  mind  is  eagle- 
eyed,  and  critical.     Such  a  mind   calndy  stands  the  glare 
of  false  rhetoric  and  false  eloquence,  while  the  weak,  un- 
armed eye  of  the  half-educated    is    dazzled   and  blinks. 
This  austere  judgment,  this  clear,  calm  criticism,  looks  by 
and  beyond  all  the  showy  and   gaudy  products  that  are 
tenq^orarily  bewitching  the  popular  taste,  to  those  serene, 
grand,  and  absolutely  beautiful  forms,  the  Dii  majorum 
gentium,  in  all  the  great  literatures  of  the  past  and  the 
present,  and  in  them  alone  tiuds  its  models,  and  upon  them 
alone  expends  its  enthusiasm. 

II.  Having  thus  discussed  the  nature  of  Eloquence,  we 
proceed  to  consider  the  general  nature  of  Rhetoric,  and, 
its  jjosition  and  influence  in  the  system  of  liberal  edu- 
cation. 

\xi  passing  to  the  consideration  of  that  branch  of  disci- 
pline whose  object  it  is  to  produce  and  promote  eloquence, 
we  are  struck  in  the  outset  with  the  fact  that  it  has  ever 
been  regarded  an  essential  part  of  a  symmetrical  system 
of  education.  If  we  look  into  the  ancient  world,  all  cul- 
ture seems  to  have  culminated  in  rhetoric  and  oratory. 
The  wh(jle  end  and  aim  of  study,  even  in  other  and  higher 
departments  appears  to  have  been  to  make  the  educated 


OF   EHETORIC   AND   ELOQUENCE.  99 

man  a  rhetorician, — iisino;  the  term  in  its  best  and  techni- 
cal  siirnitication.  The  o'oal  had  in  the  eve,  clnriiio;  the 
■whole  of  his  eciiication,  by  the  young  Athenian,  or  the 
young  Koman,  was  the  bema  or  the  rostrum.  It  was 
thought  that  unless  culture  enabled  the  mind  to  give 
expression  to  itself,  to  reveal  and  embody  its  knowledge 
in  a  form  that  woukl  impress  and  influence  other  minds, 
it  was  worthless.  Hence  even  philosophy  was  made  sub- 
servient to  oratory,  as  in  the  example  of  Pericles,  who 
studied  under  Anaxagoras,  one  of  the  most  subtle  of  the 
Greek  philosopliers,  in  order  to  prepare  himself  for  tlie 
practical  life  of  a  statesman  and  orator.  The  M'alks  of 
the  Academy  and  Lyceum  led  dij-ectly  to  the  Agora  and 
the  Forum. 

In  Grecian  and  Roman  education,  consequently,  Tlhoto- 
ric  occupied  a  high  position.  It  was  not  only  a  distinct 
dej)artment,  but  one  of  great  influence.  Geiniiue  rheto- 
rical power,  the  ability  to  express  ami  impress,  was  i-e- 
garded  as  the  last  and  highest  accomplishment  of  the 
educated  citizen.  And  the  same  holds  true,  to  a  consider- 
able extent,  of  the  svstem  of  education  in  voi>'ue  in  the 
iiKjdern  world.  If  Rhetoric,  within  the  last  hundred 
years,  has  somewhat  suidc  down  from  its  former  "  pride 
of  place,"  it  is  mainly  because  of  the  false  view  that  has 
been  taken  of  its  essential  nature,  and  the  false  method  in 
which  it  has-been  taught.  During  the  two  centuries  that 
succeeded  the  revival  of  learning,  however,  its  claims  were 
never  higher,  or  more  willingly  allowed.  The  mimiteness 
of  d(;tail,  and,  we  may  add,  the  compi'ehensiveness  on  the 
whole  of  (jutlinc,  exhibited  by  the  rhetorical  treatises  com- 
j>osed  two  hundred  years  ago,  are  am|)le  evidence  that 
then,  at  least,  there  was  no  disposition  it)  iiiiijci-vaiiic  this 
i)r;nirli  of  discipline.  In<leeil  the.  over-estimate  wliidi 
came  to  be  put  \\[h)1\  it,  together  with  the  di'y  and  median- 


100  TIIK   ETHICAL   TIIKORY 

ical  iiictliod  into  which  the  somewhat  formal,  and  yet 
substantialh'  sound  rhetoric  of  Aristotle  had  degenerated, 
contributed  to  that  reaction  which  t'oHowed,  and  which  for 
the  last  hundred  years  has  led  to  an  undcr-cstiinate  of  the 
whole  department.  Yet  Rhetoric  is  still  honored  in  that 
system  of  instruction  bv  which  the  modern  mind  is  bein<>; 
educated.  Rhetoric  is  still  one  branch  of  human  learning, 
one  department  of  instruction  ;  and  whenever  it  is  pur- 
sued in  the  spirit,  and  by  the  method,  which  its  own  real 
nature  and  distinguishing  characteristics  prescribe,  it  is 
still  found  to  minister  to  the  sound  and  vigorous  develop- 
ment of  the  mind. 

In  discriminating  the  distinctive  nature  of  Rhetoric, 
and  in  assigning  it  its  position  in  the  curriculum  of  disci- 
pline, it  is  necessary  in  the  Urst  place  to  direct  attention 
to  that  generic  classification  of  the  sciences  which  so 
greatly  assists  the  investigator  in  locating  any  particular 
cue  of  them. 

Human  knowledge  may  be  divided  into  two  grand  divi- 
sions which  ver}'  exactly  and  conveniently  distinguish  the 
immense  variety  that  enters  into  this  great  sum-total. 
Knowlediice  is  either  material  or  formal.  A  material  de- 
partment  of  knowledge  is  one  in  which  the  matter  is  pri- 
mary, and  the  form  is  secondary.  K  formal  department 
is  one  in  which  the  form  is  primary,  and  the  mat- 
ter secondary.  The  material  sciences  have  also  been 
termed  real  sciences,  to  denote  that  in  them  the  reality 
or  substance  of  human  knowledge  is  to  be  found, 
for  the  formal  sciences  are  not  independent,  and  self- 
sufficient.  They  have  no  pijsitive  character,  no  sul)- 
stantial  contents  of  their  own,  such  as  the  material  or 
real  sciences  have.  They  derive  all  the  interest  and 
worth  they  possess  from  their  connection  with  these 
latter.     They   exist  only    for    these  latter ;    because   the 


OF  RHETORIC   AND   ELOQUEXCE.  101 

foi'in  exists  only  for  the  substance,  the  manner  for  the 
matter.* 

Take  those  portions  of  the  general  department  of  philo- 
sophy which  go  under  the  names  of  physics  and  ethics, 
as  examples  of  branches  of  material  or  real  knowledge, 
and  consider  what  they  contain.  Here  we  have  no  hollow 
and  empty  divisions  which  must  be  filled  up  from  other 
divisions  in  order  that  they  may  have  solidity  ;  no  mere 
form  of  knowledge,  to  be  filled  up  with  knowledge  itself. 
Katural  and  moral  philosophy  have  each  substantial  con- 
tents of  their  own.  The  nature  and  operations  of  tho 
human  mind,  and  of  the  divine  mind  so  far  as  it  is  coo 
nizable  by  man,  and  the  laws  and  principles  of  the  mate- 
rial world, — these  and  such  like  are  the  subject  matter  of 
these  two  subdivisions  of  real  science.  In  whatever  direo- 
tion  the  moral  or  natural  philosopher  advances,  he  meets 
with  I'eal  entities  and  essences ;  he  is  occupied  with  substan- 
tial verities.  Truth  itself,  fact  itself,  and  thought  itself,  is 
the  staple  and  substance  of  his  investigations.  ^\\Qforrn 
is  for  him  an  altogether  secondary  thing;  the  matter  is 
everything.  He  does  not  ask,  '•''how  is  it  ? "  but  "  what  is 
it?" 

But  take  again  the  dci^artmeut  of  logic,  and  we  liave  a 
Ijranch  of  formal  knowlediicc.  The  loijician  establishes  no 
one  particular  truth,  but  merely  shows  how  any  truth  may 

*  "  All  rational  knowledge  Ls  either  material,  and  contemplates  some 
one  object,  ot  foniuU,  and  Ls  occupied  merely  with  the  forms  of  the  un- 
derstanding, and  of  the  reason  itself, — with  the  universal  laws  of  think- 
ing, genenilly,  without  regard  to  the  objects  of  thought.  Formal  philo- 
sophy is  denominato<l  lorjic  ;  but  material  philosopliy,  whi(;h  has  to  do 
with  determinate  objects,  and  the  laws  and  principles  to  which  they  are 
subjected,  is  twofold.  For  these  laws  are  either  laws  of  luiture  or  of 
sjiirit.  The  science  of  the  first  is  denominated  p/ii/aiM,  that  of  the  latter 
is  ethics  ;  the  former  is  also  termed  the  doctrine  of  nature,  the  lattei 
the  doctrine  of  morals. "  —Kant's  Tractical  Reason  (Vorredo). 


103  TUE   ETHICAL   TIIEOKY 

be  established.  lie  does  not  exhibit  the  actual  contents  oi 
the  hunnin  mind,  its  ideas,  sentiments,  and  beliefs,  but 
only  those  laws  of  mental  activity  in  accordance  with 
which  these  contents  iivQ  fanned.  It  is  not  the  province 
of  lon;ic  to  exhibit  thought  itself,  but  only  the  process  of 
thinking.  Logic  generates  no  fountain  of  living;  waters  ; 
it  merely  indicates  the  channel  in  which  they  must  flow, 
if  they  flow  at  all.  In  investigating  such  departments  as 
physics  and  psychology,  we  are  occupied  with  the  real, — 
with  facts  and  truths  that  are  matters  of  actual  conscious- 
ness, or  actual  intuition  ;  with  the  contents  of  our  own 
minds.  But  in  studying  sucli  a  subject  as  logic,  we  are 
occupied  with  i\\Q.fun)ial — with  the  mere  abstract  notions 
and  forms  of  the  understanding ;  with  the  ways  in  which, 
rather  than  the  things  which,  it  perceives. 

To  see  the  distinction  in  question  still  more  clearly, 
compare  an  entire  department  like  fine  art  with  an  entire 
department  like  science  or  religion.  The  end  and  aim  of 
art  is  to  embody  some  idea  in  a  form  suited  to  express  it. 
With  the  nature  and  origin  of  this  idea  it  does  not  con- 
cern itself.  It  takes  it  as  it  finds  it,  and  leaves  the  analy- 
sis and  investigation  of  its  interior  structure  to  the  philos- 
opher or  the  theologian.  The  artist  may,  it  is  true,  con- 
template this  subject  matter  of  his  art  philosopliically, 
or  theologically,  but  oidy  in  subordination  to  the  purjjoses 
of  his  profession ;  oidy  in  order  to  be  able  to  clothe  the 
idea  in  a  more  beautiful  form.  He  does  not,  like  the 
votary  of  the  7'eal  sciences,  rest  in  the  subject  matter, 
being  satisfied  with  having  unfolded  and  developed  the 
trutii  in  his  own  mind;  he  cannot  rest  until  he  has  given 
expression  to  it  in  an  outward  embodiment.  Hence  we 
say  that  fine  art  i?,  formal  in  its  nature  and  character.  It 
subordinates  everything  to  this  its  ultimate  And  constituent 
end.     For  it,  the  material  is  secondary. 


OF    KHETOKIC    AND    ELOQUENCE.  lOS 

In  reference  then  to  this  general  division  of  the  varions 
departments  of  hnnian  knowledge  and  inquiry,  Rhetoric 
is  a  formal  department.  It  is  the  science  of  form,  so  far 
as  human  discourse  is  concerned.  It  is  an  "  organic  "  art, 
as  Milton  *  terms  it ;  an  art  which  furnishes  the  organ  or 
instrument  for  communicating  thought  most  effectively  to 
other  minds.  Klietoric,  stricth^  speaking,  is  not  to  supply 
the  matter,  the  thought  itself,  but  is  to  put  the  material 
when  supplied  into  as  appropriate  and  fine  forms  as 
possible.  The  thought  itself  of  the  rhetorician  must  be 
drawn  from  deej^er  fountains  than  those  of  Rhetoric.  If 
by  thorough  collegiate  and  professional  training,  he  has 
not  first  filled  his  mind  with  the  materials  for  discourse, 
rhetorical  training  and  preparation  will  only  disclose  his 
emptiness.  From  the  iiiatenal  departments  of  human 
knowledge,  from  the  real  sciences,  he  nuist  have  first  ac- 
quired a  profound  and  compreliensive  culture,  before  he  is 
qualified  to  become  a  rhetorician. f 

Rhetorical  discipline  being  thus  formal  in  its  nature 
presupposes  on  the  part  of  the  student  a  preparation  for 
it.     It  postulates  a  full  mind  and  a  full  heart.     It  takes 

*  Tract  on  Education. 

f  Lord  Bacon  remarks  that  it  was  an  error  in  the  educational  course 
of  his  time,  "  that  scholars  in  universities  come  too  soon  and  too  u>i- 
rij>e  to  logic  and  rhetoric,  arts  fitter  for  gi-aduutes  than  children  and 
novices :  for  these  two,  rightly  taken,  are  the  gravest  of  sciences, 
hoinf,'  the  art  of  arts;  the  one  for  jud-^nient,  the  other  for  ornament  : 
and  they  be  the  rules  and  directions  how  to  set  forth  and  dispose  mat- 
ter; and,  therefore,  for  mind«  em])ty  and  unfraiicfht  with  m-((ttc)\  and 
which  have  not  gatliered  that  wliieh  Cicero  calleth  '  sylva  '  and  '  supel- 
lex,'  stuff  and  variety,  to  begin  with  those  arts  (as  if  one  sliould  learc 
to  weigh,  or  to  measure,  or  to  paint  the  wind,)  doth  work  but  this 
effect,  that  the  wisdom  of  those  arts,  wliich  is  great  and  universal, 
w  almost  made  contemptible,  and  is  degenerated  into  childisli  so 
phistry  and  ridiculous  affectation." — Advaucomeut  of  Learuijig. 
Book  I. 


104  THE   ETHICAL    TIIEOUY 

the  iiidividnal  at  tliat  point  in  his  course  of  education 
Avhcu  the  materials  have  been  originated  by  otlier  methods 
of  discipline,  when  they  are  in  a  stir  and  fermentation, 
stnuT'diniT  for  utterance  and  demandin<ij  an  outflow,  and 
teaches  him  delivery^ — teaches  him  the  method  of  em- 
hodviu'i-  thc?;e  conscious  and  livinii-  contents  of  his  mind, 
in  rounded  and  synnnetrical  forms.  If,  therefore,  Plato 
had  reason  for  writint^  over  the  door  of  his  Academy, 
"  let  no  one  who  is  not  a  geometrician  enter  here,"  the 
rhetorician  has  equal  reason  for  inscribing  upon  the  ros- 
trum, "  let  no  one  ascend  here,  who  is  not  a  scholar  and  a 
thinker." 

It  is  of  great  imjwrtance  here  to  observe  the  fact,  that 
although  Ilhetoric  is  a  formal  department  of  knowledge, 
it  must  not  be  isolated  from  the  real  sciences,  either  in 
theory  or  practice.  This  has  been  the  error  in  this  de- 
partment for  the  last  century.  That  part  of  Rhetoric 
which  is  termed  Invention, — that  part  which  treats  of  the 
supplvof  thought, — has  been  greatly  neglected  in  modern 
ti-eatises,  so  that  the  whole  art  has  been  converted  into  a 
collection  of  rules  relating  to  style,  or  Elocution,*  merely. 
Owing  partly  to  the  inti'insic  nature  of  Ilhetoric  as  an 
art,  and  partly  to  the  excessively  popular  character  which 
science  and  scientific  statements  have  assumed  in  tJio 
present  age,  Ilhetoric  lias  become  superficial  in  its  charac- 
ter and  influence,  so  that  the  term  "  rhetorical "  is  the 
synonyme  of  shallow  and  showy.  Dissevered  from  logic, 
or  the  necessary  laws  of  thought,  it  has  become  dissevered 
from  the  seat  of  life,  and  has  dcgenci'ated  into  a  mere  set! 
of  maxims  respecting  the  structure  of  sentences,  and  the 
garnish  of  expression,  f     The  rhetorician    has    been    too 

*  The  term  is  employed  in  the  sense  of  Quintilian  and  Cicero. 
\  This  is  illustrated  in  the   almost  total   neglect  of   the   study  of 
topics  or  common  places.     How  very  much  was  made  of  these,  in  the 


OF   RHETORIC   AND   ELOQUENCE.  105 

much  occupied  with  the  externals  of  his  subject.  No 
grand  and  vital  eloquence  can  originate  on  a  theory  which 
in  this  manner  separates  the  form  from  the  matter,  the 
style  from  the  thought.  As  in  the  natural  world  there  is 
no  growth  and  no  fruit,  except  as  the  living  piinciple  and 
the  outward  form  constitute  a  unity  and  identity  of  exist- 
ence, so  in  the  intellectual  world  the  idea  and  the  form  in 
which  it  is  manifested  must  inhere  in  each  other,  and  in- 
terpenetrate each  other,  in  order  to  real  excellence  of  any 
kind.  The  student  cannot  therefore  well  cultivate  think- 
ing by  itself,  isolated  from  the  expression  of  his  thought  • 
neither  can  he  cultivate  the  expression  of  thought  isolated 
from  the  process  of  thinking.  Both  processes,  the  phik 
sophical  and  the  rhetorical,  must  proceed  jxiri  jkcssu,  and 
simultaneously,  and  the  result  be  a  unity  that  is  neither 
wliolly  formal  nor  wholly  material  in  its  nature.  An  ora- 
tion considered  as  a  rhetorical  product  does  not  consist  of 
thought  alone,  any  more  than  of  expression  alone.  It  is 
thought  a7id  expression,  matter  and  form,  in  one  common 
identity.  Pure  thought,  alone  and  by  itself,  exists  only 
in  the  conscious  mind.  Pure  form,  alone  and  by  itself, 
exists  ncnvhere.  It  is  a  mere  notion  or  abstraction  of  the 
understanding,  to  which  there  is  no  objective  correspon- 
dent. A  mere  form  is  a  ghost,  and  a  ghost  possesses 
neither  being  nor  reality. 

Now,  by  virtue  of  this  intercommunication  of  Rhetoric 
with  all  the  solid  material  branches  of  kno\vledo;e,  it 
stands  midway  between  the  pure  sciences  and  the  ])racti- 
cal  arts.  It  is  neither  wiioUy  speculative,  nor  Avhoily 
practical.  It  is  a  most  intimate  and  thorough  mingling 
of  these  two  qualities.     Ilhetoric  serves,  therefore,  as  a 

ancient  Rhetoric,  fur  tho  puri)o.HC  of  opening  and  cxIiauHting'  tlienies, 
is  apparent  from  Aristotle's  list  of  topics,  and  Cicero's  compendium  of 
them,  in  his  Topica,  , 


106  THK   ETHICAL   TIlIiORY 

bond  of  connection  between  the  more  abstract  brandies, 
and  the  phvln  practical  knowledge  of  common  life.  It 
is  the  mediator  between  the  recondite  theories  of  the 
phil()S()[)her,  and  tlic  simple,  spontaneous  thinking  of  tho 
nnecliicated  man.  AVliat  indeed  is  the  orator,  or  the  dis- 
courser  generally,  but  a  man  who  stands  midway  between 
the  schools  and  the  market-place,  and  interprets  the  one 
to  the  other  ;  a  man  whose  function  it  is  to  give  such  an 
expression  to  the  lore  of  the  learned  world,  as  will  im- 
press and  influence  the  unlearned  world  ?  The  orator, 
the  disconrser  generally,  is  a  middle-man,  who  brings 
these  two  great  halves,  the  lettered  and  the  unlettered, 
together,  and  thus  contributes  to  that  collision  of  mind 
with  mind,  Mdiich  is  the  life  and  soul  of  human  literature, 
and  of  human  history.  For  it  is  this  communication  of 
thought,  which  is  ever  going  on,  that  keej^s  the  world 
alive  and  stirring.  Mere  pure  thinking,  that  never  found 
an  utterance  of  itself,  by  tongue  or  pen,  even  if  such  a 
thin<y  could  be,  would  leave  the  world  as  dull  and  motion- 
less  as  it  found  it.  It  is  the  expressed  thought,  the  lorit- 
ten  or  the  vocalized  idea,  that  stirs  and  impels  the  general 
mind. 

Having,  in  this  brief  manner,  directed  attention  to  the 
distinction  between  the  formal  and  real  sciences,  and 
having  assigned  to  Hhetoric  its  place  among  the  former, 
at  the  same  time  also  observing  its  vital  connection  with 
the  latter,  we  proceed  to  specify  some  of  the  advantages 
of  this  method  of  contemjilating  the  general  subject. 

1.  In  the  first  place,  upon  this  method,  the  department 
obtains  an  accurate  definition,  and  is  confined  to  its  own 
just  limits. 

There  was  once  a  time  when  Tthetoric  was  made  to  in- 
clude vastly  more  than  propei-ly  belongs  to  it ;  when 
indeed  it  was  more  like  an  encyclopaedia  of  all  arts  and 


OF  KHETORIC  AND  ELOQUENCE.  107 

sciences,  than  a  limited  and  specific  brancli  of  knowledge. 
Rhetoric,  at  one  time,  was  almost  as  comprehensive  a 
term  as  philosophy  is  at  the  present  day.  The  effect  of 
this  was  to  distract  the  mind  by  a  multiplicity  of  topics, 
and  to  preclude  that  singleness  of  aim,  and  unity  of  pur- 
suit, which  is  the  foundation  of  all  good  discourse.  Such 
a  variety  and  complexity  as  is  exhibited,  by  some  of  the 
elder  treatises  upon  Rhetoric,  is  destructive  of  all  distinct- 
ness, neatness,  and  elegance  of  form.  A  style  formed  by 
such  an  instrument  must  be  in  the  highest  degree  loose, 
rambling,  and  unrhetorical.  As  matter  of  fact,  the  com- 
position which  was  the  fruit  of  such  rhetorical  training  is 
generally  devoid,  not  merely  of  true  grace  and  ornament, 
but  of  the  more  necessary  cpialities  of  good  writing,  per- 
S])icuity  and  vivacity.  Sentences  are  constructed  in  the 
most  clumsy  manner;  involved,  parenthetic,  and  incom- 
plete to  the  last  degree  ;  while  the  general  style  of  the 
whole  is  heavy,  dragging,  and  dull. 

The  defect  in  these  treatises  is  the  lack  of  a  close  and 
clear  definition  in  the  outset,  of  the  nature  of  the  art  itself. 
It  was  really  regarded  as  a  material  branch  of  knowledge  ; 
and  hence  it  was  the  duty  of  the  rhetorician  to  give  ])osi- 
tive  instruction  upon  neai-ly  all  subjects.  Inasmuch  as 
the  orator  needs  all  the  knowledge  he  can  possibly  obtain  ; 
inasmuch  as  eloquence  can  successful! \'  employ  a  greater 
amount  of  information  than  any  other  department,  not 
excejtting  even  that  of  historv  ;  it  was  su|)posed  to  be  the 
business  of  Kluitoi'ic,  and  of  the  riiolc^rician,  to  furnish  it 
all.  Hence  the  department,  as  we  have  remarked,  be(tame 
virtually  an  encyclopjcdia  ;  not  merely  a  material  science, 
but  all  material  science  in  one  nuiss  ;  the  om)ie  scihUe 
itself.  JJut  such,  we  iiave  seen,  is  not  its  nature.  It  is 
strictly,  and  really,  a  formal  science.  Its  linul  oml  is 
simply  to  express,  to  communicate,  to  cmhody  ;  and   iho 


108  TITK    ETHICAL   THEORY 

more  rigorously'  this  is  held  to  be  the  essential  chara(;ter 
of  llhetoric,  the  finer  will  bo  the  forms  and  styles  of 
composition  that  come  into  existence.  No  sharply-drawn 
ontlincs,  no  distinct  definitions,  no  clean  and  clear  devel- 
opments, no  ronnd  and  full  statements,  can  originate  from 
a  llhetoric  that  is  unlimited  and  undefined  in  its  own 
nature.  If  Rhetoric  includes  everything,  and  is  to  fur- 
nish everything,  then  discourse  will  contain  everything, 
and  be  full  of  everything.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
term  is  strictly  defined,  and  the  eye  of  the  student  is  kept 
steadily  directed  to  the  production  of  a  pure  and  noble 
form^  for  the  materials  with  which  his  mind  has  been 
stored  by  other  sciences,  and  other  disciplines,  then  there 
will  arise  "  a  form  and  combination  indeed,"  a  style  and 
manner  fit  to  be  a  model. 

2.  In  the  second  place,  this  view  of  the  nature  and  rela- 
tive position  of  the  department  of  llhetoric  protects  it 
from  a  lifeless  formalitv. 

No  branch  of  human  knowled<j:e  is  so  liable  to  a  dead 
formalism  as  Rhetoric.  By  its  very  definition,  it  is 
obliged  to  make  the  form,  in  distinction  from  the  sub- 
stance,  the  appropriate  and  final  end  of  its  investigations 
and  instructions.  It  is  not  surprising,  consequently,  that 
this  formal  and  formalizing  tendency  should  become  too 
strong  in  the  course  of  time,  and  that  Rhetoric  should 
become  a  feeble  and  artificial  department,  instead  of  a 
vigorous  and  creative  one.  Human  nature  is  hypocritical. 
Its  tendency  is  to  the  form  rather  than  to  the  substance  ; 
to  the  show  rather  than  to  the  reality.  This  characteristic 
is  not  confined  to  the  moral  side  of  man's  nature.  It 
enters  very  largely  into  Jiis  intellectual  being.  Indeed, 
the  effects  of  the  apostasy  are  as  ])lainly  to  be  seen  in  the 
human  intellect,  as  in  the  human  heart.  What  is  this 
formality,  this  lack  of  sincerity  and  genuineness,  in  our 


OF   RHETORIC    AND   ELOQUENCE.  lOJ) 

mental  processes,  but  the  effect  of  a  corruption  that  has 
vitiated  the  mind,  as  well  as  the  heart  ?  If  we  closely 
examine  ourselves,  we  shall  find  an  absence  of  veracity,  of 
integrity,  of  godly  simplicity  and  sincerity,  to  be  as 
marked  and  evident  in  our  intellectual,  as  in  our  moral 
condition.     The  whole  head  is  sick. 

Kow,  when  a  department  of  human  knowledge,  by  its 
very  intrinsic  nature,  and  vocation,  falls  in  with  this  cor- 
rupt tendency  of  man's  nature,  it  is  no  wonder  that  its 
history  should  be  marked  by  degeneracy  ;  that  it  should 
constantly  grow  more  and  more  formal,  and  ungenuine,  in 
its  own  nature  and  influence.  AYhen  the  theoretic  defini- 
tion harmonizes  with  the  practical  bent,  when  high  ab- 
stract science  is  in  unison  with  an  actual  tendency  of 
man's  nature,  it  is  not  surprising  that  the  development, 
unchecked  and  unmodified  by  other  agencies,  should  be  in 
the  highest  degree  false  and  fatal.  If  the  blind  lead  the 
blind,  both  fall  into  the  ditch. 

The  history  of  Rhetoric,  and  we  may  add  of  the  whole 
department  of  fine  art,  proves  and  illustrates  the  truth  ot 
this  remai'k.  We  find  in  every  nation  which  had  an  elo- 
quence, and  an  art,  one  period  of  fresh  powerful  talent 
and  activity  in  these  departments,  and  then  long  periods 
of  feeble,  formal,  and  lifeless  efforts.  The  form  con- 
stantly encroached  upon  the  idea,  until  it  crowded  it  out. 
The  distinction  between  formal  and  real  science  become  a 
division,  and  a  separation,  so  that  each  was  pursued  alone 
by  itself,  to  the  great  injury  of  the  former,  and  to  the 
death  and  destruction  of  tlie  latter.  Compare,  e.  g.,  the 
eloquence  of  Demosthenes  with  the  oratory  of  the  Soph- 
ists. The  former  ])rocceds  from  thought,  fron^  truth,  as 
the  principle  of  all  eloquence,  form  and  style  being 
moulded  and  determined  by  it.  The  latter  starts  from 
form  and  style  itself,  which  is  continually  subjected  lo  a 


110  THE  j;tiiical  tiikory 

repetition  of  touches  and  retouches,  without  any  inward 
mould iufj,  any  livino;  formation. 

Like  shadows  on  a  stream,  the  forms  of  art 
Impress  their  character  on  the  smooth  surface, 
but  no  soul 

Warmeth  the  inner  frame.  * 

But  the  view  that  has  been  presented  of  the  nature  of 
Rhetoric,  and  of  its  relation  to  the  whole  field  of  human 
knowledge  and  inquiry,  is  2:>reclusive  of  this  besetting  bad 
tendency  in  the  department.  While  recognizing  the  es- 
sentially formal  character  of  Rhetoric,  and  thus  giving  it 
a  distinct  place  in  the  circle  of  the  sciences,  and  thereby 
confining  it  within  its  own  limits,  it,  at  the  same  time, 
directs  attention  to  the  deeper  soil  into  which  its  roots 
must  strike,  and  from  which  it  must  derive  its  nourish- 
ment and  vigor.  The  rhetorical  training  of  the  student, 
on  this  method,  is  concurrent  with  all  his  other  training, 
and  becomes  the  medium  of  its  communication  to  other 
minds.  His  general  culture  is  benefited  by  his  discipline 
in  this  direction,  for  the  whole  body  of  it  is  set  in  motion, 
and  action,  by  every  effort  to  give  form  and  expression  to 
it. 

The  whole  tendency  of  such  a  theory  of  Rhetoric  is  to 
produce,  in  practice,  masculine  and  vital  discourse.  The 
student  is  headed  right  by  it,  if  we  may  use  the  term,  and 
is  taught  to  apply  his  best  power  to  the  evolution  of  truth, 
and  the  production  of  thought  in  his  own  mind,  not  surely 
to  the  neglect  of  the  form  in  which  it  is  to  be  expressed, 
but  in  order  to  the  highest  and  most  perfect  elaboration 
of  the  form.  Commencing  with  the  matter,  he  pro- 
ceeds to  the  form,  which  is  to  take  shape  and  character, 
and    all    its    qualities,  from  that  primitive    material  for 

*  Schiller  altered. 


OF   KHETORIC    AND   ELOQUENCE.  Ill 

whose  sake  aloue  it  has  any  existence  at  all.  For,  saya 
Chaucer, 

Well  may  men  knowen,  but  it  be  a  fool, 

That  every  part  deriveth  from  his  hool. 

For  Nature  hath  not  taken  his  beg'iuning 

Of  no  partie  ne  cantel  of  a  thing, 

But  of  a  thing  that  pai-fit  is  and  stable 

Descendiug  so,  til  it  be  corrumpable.  * 

The  rhetorician  is  taught  to  be  severe  with  himself,  to 
foro-et  liiraself  in  the  theme,  that  he  mav  exhibit  it  with 
that  boldness  and  freedom  of  manner,  that  darino;  streno:th 
and  grandeur  of  treatment,  which  is  aljsohitely  beyond  the 
reach  of  him  who  is  anxious  respecting  the  impression  he 
may  make ;  who,  in  sliort,  is  tormented  by  too  much  con- 
sciousness of  self,  at  a  time  when  he  should  be  absorb- 
ingly conscious  of  the  theme. 

According  to  the  theory  here .  presented,  the  oration, 
meaning  by  this  every  rounded  and  complete  discourse,  is 
the  evolution  of  an  idea  tliat  is  the  germ  and  principle  of 
the  whole  composition.  But  nothing  can  be  of  greater 
Ijenefit  to  the  student,  than,  in  the  very  beginning  of  his 
intellectual  life,  to  be  habituated  to  compose  in  the  light, 
and  by  the  guidance,  and  under  the  impulse,  of  ideas  ; 
than  to  be  enabled  to  discover  those  germinal  truths  which 
are  pregnant  with  life,  and  which,  when  embodied  with 
fi'ccdom  and  power  in  a  discourse,  constitute  the  ground- 
W(;rk  of  the  finest  creations  of  the  human  mind.  And 
;ipart  from  the  henetit  which  is  to  be  derived  from  this 
h:il»it  iiiid  ability,  for  the  practical  purposes  ot"  Rhetoric, 
what  ;i  l)enefit  is  derived  from  il  in  respect  to  the  private 
contemplations  and  enjoyment  of  the  scholar!  Supj)osing 
he  docs  not  need  this  iibility,  because  he  is  never  calkul 
upon    to  speak  oi'  write  to  his  fdlow-men,  (a  suj)j)osition 

*  Chaucer  :  Knight's  Talc. 


112  THE    ETHICAL    THEORY 

that  is  hardly  to  the  credit  of  an  educated  man  in  this 
peculiar  age,*)  does  he  not  need  it,  in  order  that  his  own 
mind  may  reach  essential  truth,  and  may,  in  its  own  re- 
flections, follow  the  method  and  order  of  reason  ?  In 
what  a  serene  and  constant  illumination  does  that  mind 
dwell,  which  is  able  in  its  meditations  to  find  the  f'ontal 
truth  as  it  were  by  instinct,  and  to  unfold  it  by  its  own 
light,  and  in  accordance  with  its  own  structure  ! 

By  such  a  theory  the  student  is  introduced  into  the 
world  of  ideas,  laws  and  principles,  and  is  taught  to  begin 
with  these,  and  from  them  to  work  out  towards  detail 
elaboration,  and  ornament.  It  is  a  mysterious  world,  it  is 
true,  and  it  must  be,  from  the  very  fact  that  it  is  the  source 
and  origin.  But  it  is  the  very  office-work  of  thinking  to 
convert  these  ideas  into  clear  conceptions ;  to  put  these 
vast  unlimited  truths  into  definite  and  intelliiyible  dis- 
course  ;  in  fine,  in  the  Strict  meaning  of  the  term,  to  de- 
velop truth,  lie  is  the  mystical  and  obscure  discourser 
who  leaves  truth  just  as  he  finds  it;  who  does  not,  by  the 
aid  of  close  thinking  and  a  rigorous  remorseless  logic, 
compel  the  dark  pregnant  idea  to  yield  up  its  secret ;  who 
does  not  force  the  contents  out  of  the  all-comprehending 
law  or  principle.  And  he  is  the  clear  and  intelligible 
discourser,  in  tlie  only  high  sense  of  the  term  ;  clear  while 
solid,  intelligible  while  weighty;  who,  not  starting  in 
light  to  make  things  lii>:ht,  starts  in  darkness  and  works 
his  way  out  into  high  noon.  In  both  the  Pagan  and 
Christian  cosmogonies,  creation  emerged  from  old  night. 

Most  certainly,  the  influence  of  such  a  theor}''  of  Bhet 
oric  is  enlivening  to  the   mind.     Setting  aside  the  fact, 

*  "  Ob  eamque  causam  eloqui  copiose,  motjo  pnidenter,  melius  est, 
quam  vel  acutissime  sine  eloquentia  cogitare  :  quod  cogitatio  in  se  ipsa 
vertitur,  eloquentia  complectitur  eos,  quilms  cum  communitate  juncta 
sumus."— Cicero,  De  Ofl&ciis,  Lib.  I.  cap.  44. 


OF   KHETOKIC    AND   ELOQUENCE.  113 

that  it  is  the  only  one  by  the  aid  of  whicli  eloquence  can 
come  into  existence,  it  is  the  only  worJclng  theory,  it  is 
most  certainly  a  great  point  gained,  if  an  art,  so  often 
supposed  to  be  at  farthest  remove  from  earnestness  and 
vividness,  which  is  regarded  too  commonly  as  the  art  by 
■vvliich  the  ornaments  are  furnished  when  the  solid  and 
real  work  has  been  done,  is  shown  to  have  its  native  seat 
and  source  in  botli  logic  and  ethics.  The  expression  of 
tliought  l)y  this  theory  becomes  a  sincere  act,  and  the 
mind,  wliile  giving  utterance  to  its  reflections,  is  really 
contributing  to  the  moral  culture  and  developuient  of  the 
man.  The  productions  of  such  a  Tihetoric  are  marked  by 
that  grave  and  conscientious  character  which  is  the  natural 
fruit  of  simplicity  and  genuineness  in  the  mental  processes. 
The  effect  of  the  theory  is  seen  even  in  the  language  cm- 
ployed.  It  is  no  longer  stiff,  stilted,  and  aloof  from  the 
thought,  but  pliant,  vital,  and  consubstantial  with  it. 

3.  It  is  obvious  in  the  third  place,  that  the  view  under 
consideration  imparts  an  interest  to  the  department  of 
Tihetoric  which  it  is  entirely  destitute  of,  upon  any  other 
theory. 

For,  as  we  have  ali-eady  remarked,  no  strictly  formal 
dcpai'tinent  of  knowledge  is  independent  and  solf-subsis- 
teiit.  If  we  confine  ourselves  to  a  mere  art,  without  re- 
spect to  the  more  profound  principles  that  lie  under  it, 
our  minds  soon  become  weary  and  spiritless.  Such  is  the 
aflinity  between  the  human  intellect  and  fundamental 
truth,  such  is  the  hungering  after  6'^*J«^«;^.^^«^  knowledge 
and  renl  science,  that  it  camiot  be  jK'rmanently  interested 
in  any  braiu-h  of  iiupiiry,  or  of  a(-tivity,  that  does  not  ulti- 
mately lead  it  down  into  these  de[jth3.  Essential  truth  is 
the  element,  and  the  aliment,  of  a  ratioiuil  mind,  and  noth- 
ing short  of  this  form  f)f  truth  can  long  satisFy  its  wants. 
LTidess,  therefore,  rhetorical  discipline  conducts  the  mind 


11-1:  Till-:    ETHICAL   THEORY 

ultimately  to  these  perennial  fountains  of  stimulation  and 
nourishment,  it  will  soon  become  irksome  in  its  nature, 
and  "wearisome  in  its  influence.  All  this  training  in  the 
art  of  composition  will  only  serve  to  drink  up  the  vigorous 
juices,  and  kill  out  the  life  of  the  mind. 

If,  on  the  contrary,  rhetorical  study  and  practice  he 
grafted  into  the  vigorous  stock  of  a  preexisting  culture, 
if  the  student  come  to  it  with  a  \vell-trained  and  fully  in- 
formed mind,  the  result  of  industry  and  fidelity  in  the 
academical,  collegiate,  and  professional  courses  of  instruc- 
tion through  which  he  has  passed ;  then  this  part  of  his 
labor  as  an  educated  man  will  be  the  most  interestino;  and 
congenial  of  all.  We  have,  perhaps,  experienced  the  ex- 
quisite pleasure  which  the  intellect  feels  in  the  hour  of 
vigorous  creative  production;  the  high  swelling  enthusi- 
asm of  the  mind,  as  it  careers  over  a  field  of  noble  and 
lofty  thought.  We  have,  perhaps,  experienced  that  en- 
largement and  elevation  of  soul,  which  accompanies  the 
distinct  intuition  of  principles,  and  a  firm  masterly  grasp 
of  them.  "  The  highest  joy,"  says  Schiller,  "  is  the  free- 
dom of  the  mind,  in  the  living  play  of  all  its  powers  ;  " 
and  there  is  no  sphere  in  which  this  play  of  the  intellect 
is  so  full  and  so  free,  as  that  of  authorship,  as  that  of 
composition.  None  of  the  other  processes  in  the  course 
of  education  can  compare  with  it,  for  depth  and  hearti- 
ness of  interest.  The  processes  of  memorizing,  of  com- 
paring, of  judging,  of  analyzing,  of  combining,  and  of 
clcjse  attention, — the  processes  that  occur  in  the  classical, 
mathematical,  historical,  and  philosophical  disciplines, — ■ 
ai'e  each  and  all  of  them  inferior  in  fresh  living  interest, 
to  the  process  of  original  production.  In  these  former 
instances,  the  mind  is  somewhat  passive,  and  but  a  portion 
of  its  power  is  in  exercise.  But  in  the  act  and  process 
of  original   authorshij*,   the  mind  becomes   a   unit  and 


\ 


OF   EHETOKIC    AND    ELOQUENCE.  115 

unity,  all  its  powers  are  concentrated  into  one,  and  the 
productive  process  is  a  most  original  and  vital  union 
of  all  the  knowledo-e,  all  the  feelino-,  all  the  imao;ina- 
tion,  and  all  the  moral  force  of  the  man.  The  historian 
Kiebiihr,  speaking  of  the  historian's  vocation,  remarks 
that  he  who  calls  past  ages  into  being  enjoys  a  bliss  analo- 
gous to  that  of  creating.^^  With  ecpial  trutli,  may  we  say 
of  that  mind  which  is  able,  in  the  conscious  awakenini; 
of  all  its  powers,  to  give  full  and  satisfactory  utterance  to 
its  thick-coming  thoughts,  that  it  enjoys  the  joy  of  a 
creator.  If  there  is  one  bright  particular  hour  in  tlie  life 
of  the  educated  man,  in  the  career  of  the  sciiolar,  it  is  that 
hour  for  which  all  other  hours  of  student  life  were  made, 
— that  hour  in  which  he  gives  original  and  full  expression 
to  what  has  slowlv  been  ccenderino;  within  him.  Now, 
what  this  bright  hour  is  to  the  general  life  of  the  educated 
man,  rhetorical  discipline  and  practice  is  to  the  sum-total 
of  education.  If  pursued  in  the  right  method,  and  after 
the  proper  preparatory  work  has  been  done,  it  imparts  an 
interest  to  general  study  and  general  culture,  such  as  can- 

*  "  I  have  found,"  he  says  in  one  of  his  letters,  "  my  former  experi- 
ence irresistibly  confirmed,  that  with  me  the  body  depends  entirely  on 
the  mind,  and  that  my  indisposition  almost  always  arises  from  some 
impediment  to  the  free  action  of  my  mind,  which  seems  to  introduce 
disorder  into  all  the  functions  of  the  bodily  machine.  When  my  mind 
is  exerting  itself  freely  and  energetically  upon  a  great  subject,  and  I 
advance  succcssfaliy  from  one  point  to  another,  displaying  their  mutual 
connection  as  I  proceijcl,  I  cither  U'X'X  no  physical  inconveniences,  or  if 
they  show  themselves,  they  disappear  again  very  quickly.  No  man  can 
have  a  more  vivid  porc(!i>ti<)n,  that  crniUn;/  is  the  true  essence  of  life, 
than  I  have  derived  from  my  internal  experience.  But  if  I  am  alto- 
gether restricted  to  a  passive  state  of  mind,  the  whole  machine  comes 
to  a  stop,  and  my  inward  discomfort  Ijrings  on  an  unhealthy  condition 
of  body,  of  which  I  have  an  unmistakaljle  outward  sign,  in  the  contrast 
between  the  free  and  strong  circulation  of  the  blood  in  the  former  state, 
and  its  irregularity  in  the  latter." — Life  and  Letters,  p.  I7y. 


116  THE   ETHICAL   THEORY 

not  exist  without  it.  How  dull  and  stupid  is  the  life  of  a 
l)Ook-\\'onn  ;  of  a  mind  which  passes  through  all  the  stai^es 
of  education,  except  that  last  and  crowning  one,  by  means 
of  which  it  is  put  into  communiGcUion  with  the  great 
world  of  scholars  and  letters.  Such  a  mind  is  always  des- 
titute of  that  most  interestinii:  and  infallible  si<;n  of  o;cnn- 
ine  culture,  enthusiasm.  It  lias  done  nothing  for  long 
years  but  absorb.  Knowledge  has  had  the  same  effect 
npon  its  inner  fabric  and  structure,  which  the  sweet  rains 
of  heaven  have  upon  the  rootless  fallen  pine.  The  noble 
shaft  becomes  struck  with  the  sap-rot. 

The  history  of  literature  furnishes  many  examples  of 
men  whose  knowledge  only  increased  their  sorrow,  because 
it  never  found  an  efflux  from  their  own  minds  into  the 
world.  Knowledo-e  uncommunicated  is  something  like 
remorse  nnconfessed.  Tlie  mind  not  being  allowed  to  go 
out  of  itself,  and  to  direct  its  energies  towards  an  object 
and  end  greater  and  worthier  than  itself,  turns  back  upon 
itself,  and  becomes  morbidly  self-reliecting  and  self-con- 
scious. A  studious  and  reflecting  man  of  this  class  is 
cliaracterized  by  an  excessive  fastidiousness,  which  makes 
him  dissatisfied  with  all  that  he  does  himself,  or  sees  done 
by  others  ;  which  represses,  and  finally  suppresses,  all  the 
buoyant  and  spirited  activity  of  the  intellect,  leaving  it 
sluggish  as  "  the  dull  weed  that  rots  by  Lethe's  wharf." 
The  poet  Gray  is  an  example  in  point.  In  the  instance 
of  this  in  many  respects  highly  interesting  literary  man, 
tlie  acrpiisition  of  culture  far  outran  the  ex2:)ression  and 
communication  of  it.  The  scholar  overlaid  the  author. 
Even  the  comparatively  few  attempts  which  this  mind 
made  to  embody  its  thoughts  were  hampered  by  its  exces- 
sive introspection.  Had  Gray  thrown  himself  out  with 
freedom  and  boldness  upon  the  stream  of  original  pro- 
duction, which  might  have  been  made  to  flow  from  his 


OF  KHETORIC  AND  ELOQUENCE.  117 

i-ichlj-endowed  and  richly-iii formed  inind,  he  would  have 
been  stronger,  greater,  and  happier  as  a  literary  man. 
K either  would  his  productions  have  lost  that  perfection 
of  symmetry,  and  elaborate  hard  finish  which  they  ex- 
hibit ;  while  at  the  same  time  thev  would  have  had 
breathed  into  them  that  warm  breath  of  life,  which  they 
do  not  now  possess,  and  for  the  lack  of  which  no  mere 
art  can  ever  compensate.  Certain  it  is  that  a  closer, 
warmer  contact  with  the  mind  of  his  ao;e,  throuo-h  a  more 
daring  and  exuberant  authorship  on  his  part,  would  have 
imparted  a  spring  and  buoyancy  to  the  literary  character 
of  Gray  that  would  have  rendered  it  a  more  iuflueutial 
and  interesting  one  than  it  now  is. 

As  an  example  of  the  freshening  and  invigorating  in- 
fluence of  the  constant  and  free  communication  of  thouirht 
upon  the  intellect,  take  Sir  Walter  Scott.  His  mind  was 
one  of  the  healthiest,  and  most  robust,  that  we  meet  with 
in  the  history  of  literature.  It  was  also  one  of  the  hap- 
piest, the  most  free  from  morbid  exercises  and  activities. 
Something  was  undoubtedly  due  to  its  native  structure, 
but  very  much  was  owing  to  those  habits  of  authorship 
wliicli  it  early  acquired,  and  long  kept  up.  Suppose  that 
Sccitt  had  immured  himself  in  his  librarv,  had  <riven  free 
play  to  his  acquisitive  and  uuti<piarian  tendencies,  with- 
out develo[)ing  and  using  his  originating  and  productive 
talent,  can  we  su})pose  that  his  intellect  would  have  been 
that  warm,  breezy,  sunny  spot  that  it  always  was  ?  It  is 
true  that  he  linally  broke  his  powers  down,  by  attomjiting 
the  IJcrculcan  task  of  rescuing  the  great  ])ul)lishiiig  house 
with  which  he  hud  become  connected  fi"oni  bunkiMiptcy  ; 
but  this  dead  lift  of  the  mental  powers  is  not  what  wo 
are  speaking  of.  It  is  the  moderate,  and  nnilonii,  yet 
free  and  bold  expression  of  the  thoughts  oi:  an  educated 
mind,  in  distinction  iVoiii  the  dull,  lethargic,  unilonn  Mip- 


118  THE   ETHICAL   TIIKOKY 

prcssion  of  them,  of  wlilch  wc  arc  speaking,  and  foi 
wliich  wc  are  pleadino;. 

In  this  way,  the  ethical  tlieory  of  Klietoric,  wliile  re- 
suhing  in  a  practical  and  energetic  Eloquence,  exerts  a 
vivifying  influence  upon  the  entire  culture  of  the  student. 
It  gives  cmjfloi/moit  to  the  sum  total  of  his  acquisitions, 
instead  of  permitting  it  to  remain  idle  in  his  mind.  It 
elaborates  and  uses,  for  the  purposes  of  popular  instruc- 
tion and  impression,  all  the  nuiterial  with  which  the  mind 
is  tilled,  instead  of  allowing  it  to  remain  a  lifeless  mass,  a 
caj>ut  mortuum,  by  itself.  Mathematical,  classical,  his- 
torical, philosophical,  and  theological  knowledge,  instead 
of  being  held  in  tlie  memory  from  a  mere  feeling  of  van- 
ity, is  set  to  work  from  a  sense  of  duty.  The  Ithetoi-ic  of 
the  man  has  affinities  with  the  scholarship  of  the  man. 
It  is  homogeneous  with  it.  It  moulds  it,  and  embodies  it. 
For  the  rhetorician,  \\^^o\^  this  theory,  and  under  this 
training,  is  not  one  in  whom  tvi^o  distinct  disciplines  exist 
side  by  side,  with  no  interpenetration,  lie  is  not  at  one 
time  a  dull  sluggish  recipient  of  knowledge,  and  at  an- 
other a  dull  formal  communicator  of  knowledge  ;  dis- 
chari>:in<i;  two  functions  which  in  him  have  no  connection 
with  each  other.  lie  is  at  all  times  a  ofenial  and  vital 
receiver,  and  a  genial  vital  communicator.  It  was  once 
said  of  a  famous  jurist,  that  his  knowledge  had  passed 
out  of  his  memory  into  his  judgment.  We  may  say  of 
the  genuine  rhetorician,  that  his  knowledge  is  continually 
passing  out  of  his  passive  into  his  active  nature.  It  enters 
into  the  circulation  of  the  soul,  and  becomes  vitalized  by 
its  living  curi-ents.  The  scholar  and  the  orator  are  not 
separated  from  each  other,  but  constitute  one  living  per- 
sonality. 

But  what  an  energy  is  imparted  to  culture,  by  a  train- 
ing that  thus  tasks  to  the  utmost  lor  acquisitions,  and  tlicii 


OF   EUETOKIC   AISTD   ELOQUENCE.  119 

vivifies  those  acquisitions  to  the  utmost  in  order  to  popu- 
lar oratorical  impression  !  It  is  safe  to  say  that  the  litera- 
ture of  a  nation  is  vigorous  and  alive,  only  in  proportion 
as  it  has  oratorical  elements  in  it ;  and  that  the  very 
height  of  its  living  energy  appears  in  its  eloquence  and 
oratory.  Wliat  other  portion  of  Greek  literature  throbs 
vfith  such  intense  life  as  the  speeches  of  Demosthenes  ? 
If  there  be  any  of  the  vis  vlvltla  vitae  in  Roman  litera- 
ture, that  literature  whicli,  unlike  all  others,  was  born  old, 
and  never  exhibits  any  of  the  morn  and  liquid  dew  of 
youth, — if  there  be  any  fresh  vital  force  in  Roman  letters, 
is  it  not  to  be  found  in  the  orations  of  Cicero  ?  And 
where,  in  the  modern  world,  do  the  most  vehement  and 
passionate  energies  of  the  human  intellect  expatiate  and 
career,  if  not  in  the  vastly  widened  arena  of  political  and 
sacred  eloquence, — if  not  on  that  theatre  where  the  active, 
practical  interests  of  man  for  time  and  for  eternity  come 
up  for  discussion  and  decision? 

The  importance  of  a  high  and  philosophic  theory  of 
eloquence  and  oratory,  when  considered  in  its  bearings 
upon  the  education  of  the  American  mind,  is  plain  and 
great.  The  American  is  sensitive  to  eloquence,  and  is  in- 
clined to  be  influenced  by  the  rhetorician  and  orator  more 
than  by  the  poet  or  the  philosopher.  We  are  in  our  youth 
as  a  nation ;  in  that  forming  period  which  in  Grecian,  in 
Roman,  and  in  English  history,  is  marked  by  the  ballad 
and  romance  litei-ature.  Uidike  our  predecessors  we 
have  not  been  much  inilncnced  b}'  these  lighter  and  im- 
aginative si)ccies,  Ijut  even  in  our  infancy  and  youth  have 
sought  a  "manlier  diet."  AVo  afl'ect  eloquence  and 
oratory,  rather  than  the  ballad  and  the  romance.  If  we 
c(jmj)are  the  literature  of  Anjeri(;a  with  that  of  Europe, 
foi-  the  last  hundred  yeara,  we  find  that  our  success  has 
been  altogether  greatest  in  this  department.     During  this 


120  THE   ETHICAL   TUEORr 

period  we  liave  produced  no  poetry  equal  to  that  of  Eng- 
laiul,  no  philosophy  equal  to  that  of  Germany,  and  no 
science  equal  to  that  of  France.  But  the  most  unwilling 
admirer  must  acknowledge  that  we  have  produced  a  body 
of  eloquence  and  oratory  which,  taken  as  a  whole,  is  equal 
lo  contemporaneous  English  or  Continental  eloquence. 
The  eloquence  called  out  in  the  debates  upon  the  adoption 
of  the  Constitution,  and  all  along  down  from  that  time  to 
the  present,  in  expounding  and  defending  it;  the  pane- 
gyrical eloquence  of  the  country  elicited  by  the  commem- 
oration of  great  events,  or  of  patriotic  men  ;  nay  even  the 
ruder  and  less  elaborate  efforts  incident  to  the  political 
contests  that  occur  so  often :  all  these  have  resulted, 
within  the  period  of  the  last  hundred  years  in  the  repub- 
lican States  of  America,  in  a  body  of  oratorical  literature 
■ivith  M'liich  nothing  could  so  well  compare,  as  that  which 
was  called  forth  (but  which  has  not  been  handed  down), 
in  the  democracies  of  Greece,  from  the  time  when  the 
Olympian  Pericles  thundered  in  the  Agora,  to  the  time 
when  Demosthenes  sucked  the  poisoned  quill. 

The  American  mind  ought  thei'efore  to  be  under  the 
influence  of  a  high  theory,  and  a  strict  taste,  in  order 
that  this  tendency  may  receive  its  veiy  best  education  ; 
and  in  order  that  American  eloquence  may  continue  to 
be  characterized  by  solid  and  sterling  qualities.  The 
national  mind  has  been  too  seriously  occupied  with  great 
interests,  to  become  meretricious  in  its  rhetoric  and  elo- 
quence. The  lievolution  that  established  liljerty  and  the 
government,  and  the  national  crises  that  have  occurred 
since,  were  no  time  for  an  inflated  and  bombastic  display. 
Enei'ijy  and  thouwhtfulness  characterize  our  favorite  and 
model  (;rators.  But  peace,  and  prosperity,  and  perfect 
security,  relax  the  mind  and  its  theories.  There  is  now 
danger  that  the  form  outrun  the  substance ;  that  congres- 


OF   KHETOEIC   AND   ELOQUENCE.  121 

sional  debates,  that  judicial,  panegyrical,  and  sacred  elo- 
quence, all  of  them  become  less  truthful  and  forceful  in 
their  character,  while  they  become  more  florid  and  daz- 
zling. 

What  better  corrective,  then,  can  there  be,  than  a  good 
educational  theory,  upon  the  whole  subject,  in  both  the 
individual  and  the  public  mind;  in  both  the  auditor  and 
the  orator?  If  audiences  are  intolerant  of  a  rhetoric  that 
separates  the  form  from  the  matter,  the  stj'le  from  the 
thought,  the  public  speaker  will  know  it,  and  act  accord- 
ingly. If  the  auditor  insists  that  eloquence  have  a  soul  of 
truth,  and  of  thought,  within  it,  the  orator  will  yield,  and 
become  a  more  thoughtful  man,  that  he  may  minister  to 
the  public  want.  The  result  will  be  a  rhetoric  and  an 
oratory  that  tirst  patiently  accuuiulates  knowledge,  and 
then  thoroughly  elaborates  it,  for  the  purposes  of  popular 
instruction  and  impression, — an  eloquence 

' '  not  like  those  rills  from  a  height 
Which  sparkle  and  foam,  and  in  vapor  are  o'er  ; 
But  a  current  that  works  out  its  way  into  light 
Through  the  filtering  recesses  of  thought  and  of  lore." 
6 


THE    CHARACTERISTICS    AND    IMPORTAIsCE 
OF  A  NATURAL  RHETORIC* 


There  is  no  erreater  or  more  strikino-  contrast,  than 
exists  between  a  thing  that  is  alive,  and  a  thing  that  is 
dead ;  between  a  product  of  nature,  and  a  product  of 
mechanism ;  between  a  thing  that  has  a  principle 
within  it,  and  a  "  thing  of  shreds  and  patches."  The 
human  mind  notices  this  contrast  between  the  various 
objects  that  come  before  it,  the  quicker  and  the  more 
eharply,  because  it  is  itself  a  living  thing,  and  because 
its  own  operations  are  unifying,  organizing,  and  vivify- 
iiig,  in  their  nature.  "We  sometimes  speak  of  the  mech- 
aninui  of  the  human  understanding,  and  of  a  mechaniz- 
ing  process  as  going  on  within  it.  Rut  this  language  is 
metaphorical,  and  employed  to  denote  the  uniformity 
and  certainty  of  intellectual  processes,  rather  than  their 
real  nature.  Man  is  a  livinir  soul,  and  there  is  no  action 
anywhere,  or  in  anything,  that  is  more  truly  and  purely 
vit;il,  more  entirely  diverse  from  and  hostile  to  the 
mechanical  and  the  dead,  than  the  genuine  action  of  tlie 
human  iiind.  Hence  it  is  that  tlie  mind  notices  this 
contrary  quality  and  characteristic  in  an  object  with  the 

*  An  inaugural  (liscourae  at  Auburn,  June  10,  1853. 


124  THE   CIIAUAcrrKKISTICS    AND 

rapidity  of  instinct,  and  starts  back  from  it  with  a  sort 
of  organic  recoil.  Life  detects  death,  and  shrinks  from 
death,  instantaneously.  Nature  abhors  art  and  artifice, 
as  decidedly  as,  according  to  the  old  philosophy,  it 
abhors  a  vacuum. 

This  distinction  between  the  natural  and  the  artificial, 
furnishes  a  clue  to  the  difference  which  runs  through  all 
the  productions  of  man,  and  reveals  the  secret  of  their 
excellence  or  their  defects.  How  often  and  how  sponta- 
neously do  we  sum  up  our  whole  admiration  of  a  work 
by  saying,  "  it  is  natural,"  and  our  whole  dislike  by  the 
words,  "  it  is  artiiicial  ?  "  The  naturalness  and  life-like- 
ness in  the  one  case,  are  the  spring  of  all  that  has  pleased 
us ;  the  formality  and  artifice  in  the  other,  are  the  source 
of  all  that  has  repelled  or  disgusted  us.  Even  when  we 
go  no  further  in  om*  criticism,  this  general  statement  of 
conformity  or  oppugnancy  to  nature,  seems  to  be  a  suffi- 
cient criticism.  And  with  good  reason.  For,  if  a  pro- 
duction has  nature,  has  life  in  it,  it  has  real  and  perma- 
nent excellence.  It  has  the  germ  and  root  of  all 
excellences.  And  if  it  has  not  nature  or  life  in  it ;  if  it 
is  a  mechanical,  or  an  artificial,  or  a  formal  thing;  it  has 
the  elements  of  all  defects  and  all  faults  in  it. 

It  will  be  noticed  here,  that  we  have  used  the  term  Art 
in  its  more  common  and  bad  sense,  of  contrariety  to 
Nature,  and  not  in  that  technical  and  best  signification 
of  the  word,  which  implies  the  oneness  and  unison  of  the 
two.  For,  true  Art,  Fine  Art,  has  Nature  in  it,  and  the 
genuine  artist,  be  he  painter,  or  poet,  or  orator,  is  one 
who  paints,  or  sings,  or  speaks,  with  a  natural  freedom 
and  freshness.  Hence  it  is,  that  we  are  impressed  by  the 
great  productions  o/  Fine  Art,  in  the  same  way  that  we 
are  by  the  works  of  Nature.  A  painting,  warm  from  the 
easel  of  Claude  Lorraine,  appeals  to  what  is  alive  in  us, 


IMPOETANCE   OF   A    NATUKAL   EHETOKIC.  125 

in  the  same  genial  way  that  a  vernal  landscape  does. — 
An  oration  from  a  clear  brain,  a  beating  heart,  and  a 
glowing  lip,  produces  effects  analogous  to  those  of  light, 
and  fire,  and  the  electric  currents.  In  this  way,  a  mys- 
terious union  is  found  to  exist  between  outward  natufe, 
and  that  inward  natm-e  in  the  soul  of  man  which  we  call 
genius  ;  and  in  this  way  we  see  that  there  is  no  essential 
difference  betAveen  Nature  and  Art* 

But  in  the  other  and  more  common  sense  of  the  term 
Art ;  and  the  sense  in  which  we  shall  employ  it  at  this 
time ;  there  is  no  such  mystic  union  and  unison  between 
it  and  Nature.  It  is  its  very  contrary ;  so  much  so,  that 
the  one  kills  and  expels  the  other ;  so  much  so,  that,  as 
we  have  said,  the  one  affords  a  universal  test  of  the  fault- 
iness,  and  the  other  of  the  excellence,  of  the  productions 
of  the  human  mind,  in  all  departments  of  effort.  For 
the  Natural  is  the  true,  while  the  Artificial  is  the  false. 
Truth  is  the  inmost  essence  of  that  principle  by  which  a 
production  of  the  human  mind  is  so  organized  and  vital- 
ized, as  to  make  a  fresh  and  powerful  impression. — 
Whenever  in  any  department  of  effort,  the  human  mind 
has  reached  verity,  and  is  able  to  give  a  simple  and  sin- 
cere expression  to  it,  we  find  the  product  full  of  nature, 
full  of  life,  full  of  freshness,  full  of  impression.     This, 


*  Nature's  o-.vn  work  it  seemed,  (nature  taught  art.) 

Paradise  Eegained,  ii.  295. 

All  nature  is  hut  art  unknown  to  thee.  Pope. 

Nature  is  the  art  of  God.  Sir  Thomas  Bkowne. 

There  is  a  nature  in  all  artificial  things,  and  again,  an  artifice  in  all  com« 
poundfd  natural  things.  CuDwonTir. 

The  art  of  .seeing  nature  is  in  reality  the  great  ohjcct  of  the  studies  of  the 
artist.  Sin  Joshua  Reynolds. 

Art  may,  in  truth,  he  called  the  Intnuin  irorld.  Ali.STON'. 

For  a  |)liiloso|iliic  statcinont  of  this  theory  sec  Kant's  Urthcilskrafr  ^^  45, 
46,  and  Schelling's  discourse  upon  liic  relation  of  Art  to  Nature. 


126  Tin:  characteristics  and 

and  this  ultimately,  is  the  plain  secret  of  the  charm  in 
every  work  of  genius  and  of  power.  In  every  instance, 
the  inlluence  which  sways  the  observer,  or  the  hearer,  or 
the  reader,  is  the  influence  of  the  veritable  reality,  of  the 
real  and  the  simple  truth.  The  Artificial,  on  the  con- 
trary, is  the  false.  Examine  any  formal  production  what- 
ever, and  we  shall  be  brought  back  in  the  end  to  a 
pretence,  to  a  falsehood.  The  mind  of  the  author  is  not 
filled  with  the  truth,  and  yet  he  pretends  to  an  utterance 
of  the  truth.  Its  working  is  not  genial  and  spontaneous 
like  that  of  nature,  and  yet  he  must  give  out  that  it  is. 
From  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  process,  therefore, 
an  artificial  production  is  essentially  mitrue,  unreal,  and 
hence  unnatural. 

We  have  thus  briefly  directed  attention  to  this  very 
common  distinction  between  the  Natural  and  the  Artifi- 
cial, and  to  the  ground  of  it,  for  the  purpose  of  introdu- 
cing the  general  topic  upon  which  we  propose  to  speak 
on  this  occasion :  viz. 

Tlie  CharacterisUcs  and  importance  of  a  Natural  Rhe- 
toric, ivilh  special  reference  to  the  work  of  the  Preacher. 

There  is  no  branch  of  knowledge  so  liable  to  an  artifi- 
cial method,  as  that  of  Rhetoric.  Strictly  defined,  it  is, 
indeed,  as  Milton  calls  it,  an  instrumental  art,  and  hence, 
from  its  very  nature,  its  appropriate  subject-matter  is  the 
form  of  a  discourse.  While  Philosophy,  and  History, 
and  Theology,  are  properly  occupied  with  the  substance 
of  human  composition ;  with  truth  itself  and  thought 
itself;  to  Rhetoric  is  left  the  humbler  task  of  putting  this 
material  into  a  form  suited  to  it.  Hence,  it  is  evident, 
that  by  the  very  nature  and  definition  of  Rhetoric,  this 
department  of  knowledge  and  of  discipline  is  liable  to 
formalism  and  artificiality.     While  the  mind  is  carried 


IMPORTANCE   OF   A   NATUEAL   KHETOEIC.  127 

by  the  solid,  material,  branches  of  education,  further  and 
further  into  the  very  substance  of  truth  itself ;  while  His- 
tory, and  Philosophy,  and  Theology,  by  their  very  struc- 
ture and  contents,  tend  to  deepen  and  strengthen  the 
mental  processes  ;  Rhetoric,  in  common  with  the  whole 
department  of  Fine  Art,  seems  to  induce  superficiality 
and  formahty.  And  when  a  bad  tendency  seems  to 
receive  aid  from  a  legitimate  department  of  human 
knowledge,  it  is  no  wonder  that  it  should  gain  gi'ound 
until  it  convert  the  whole  department  into  its  own  nature. 
Hence,  as  matter  of  fact,  there  is  no  branch  of  knowledge, 
no  part  of  a  general  system  of  education,  so  much  infec- 
ted, in  all  ages,  with  the  merely  formal,  the  merely 
hollow,  the  merely  artificial,  and  the  totally  lifeless,  as 
Rhetoric.  The  epigram  which  Ausonius  WTote  under 
the  portrait  of  the  Rhetorician  Rufus,  might,  with  too 
much  truth,  be  applied  to  the  Rhetorician  generally : 
Ipse  rhetor,  est  imago  imaginis.* 
The  need,  therefore,  of  a  Rhetoric  that  educates  like 
nature,  and  not  artificially ;  a  Rhetoric  that  organizes 
and  vitalizes  the  material  that  is  made  over  to  it  for  pur- 
poses of  form  ;  is  apparent  at  first  glance.  Without  such 
a  method  of  expression,  the  influence  of  the  solid  branches 
of  education  themselves  is  neutralized.  However  full  of 
fresh  and  original  thought  the  mind  may  be,  if  it  has 
been  trained  up  to  a  mode  of  presenting  it,  that  is  in  its 
own  nature  artificial  and  destructive  of  life,  the  freshness 
and  originality  will  all  disappear  in  the  process  of  impart- 
ing it  to  another  mind.  A  Rhetoric  that  is  conformed  to 
nature  and  to  truth,  is  needed,  therefore,  in  order  that  the 
department  itself  may  be  co-ordinate  with  those  higher 
departments  of  knowli-dge  in  which  the  foundation  of 

*  Ausoiiii  Ei)ig.  n. 


128 


THE   CnAKACTERISTICS   AND 


mental  cdncation  is  laid.  Without  such  a  concurrence 
with  the  material  branches  of  education,  such  a  merely 
formal  and  instrumental  branch  as  that  of  Rhetoric,  is 
useless,  and  worse  than  useless.  For  it  only  diverts  the 
mind  from  the  thought  to  the  expression,  without  any 
gain  to  the  latter,  and  to  the  positive  detriment  of  the 
former. 

1.  Rhetoric,  therefore,  can  be  a  truly  educating  and 
influential  department,  only  in  proportion  as  it  is  org-an- 
izinsr  in  its  fundamental  character.  In  order  to  this,  it 
must  be  grounded  first  of  all  in  logic,  or  the  laws  of 
thinking,  and  so  become  not  a  mere  collection  of  rules 
for  the  structure  and  decoration  of  single  sentences,  but 
a  habit  and  process  of  the  human  mind.  The  Rhetori- 
cian must  make  his  first  sacrifice  to  the  stern  deities. 
In  an  emblematic  series  by  one  of  the  early  Florentine 
engravers.  Rhetoric  is  represented  by  a  female  figm-e  of 
dignified  and  commanding  deportment  with  a  helmet 
surmounted  by  a  regal  crown  on  her  head,  and  a  naked 
sword  in  her  right  hand.  And  so  it  should  be.  Soft 
ness,  and  grace,  and  beauty,  must  be  supported  by 
strength  and  prowess  ;  the  golden  and  jewelled  crown 
must  be  defended  by  the  iron  helmet,  and  the  steel  sword. 
A  rhetorical  mind,  therefore,  in  the  best  and  proper  sense 
of  the  term,  is  at  bottom  a  constructive  mind ;  a  mind 
capable  of  methodizing  and  organizing  its  acquisitions 
and  reflections  into  forms  of  symmetry,  and  strength,  and 
in  a  gi-eater  or  less  degree  of  beauty.  It  is  a  mind  which, 
in  the  effort  to  express  itself,  begins  from  witliin  and 
works  outward,  and  whose  product  is,  for  this  reason, 
characterized  by  the  unity  and  thorough  compactness  of 
a  product  of  Nature.  Such,  for  example,  was  the  mind 
of  Demosthenes,  and  such  a  product  is  the  Oration  for 
the  Crown.     The  oratorical  power  of  this  great  master  is 


nrPORTAXCE    OF   A    A'ATLKAL    KHETOEIC.  129 

primarily  a  constructive  talent ;  an  ability  to  methodize 
and  combine.  Take  away  this  deeply-running  and  rig- 
orous force  by  which  the  various  parts  of  the  discourse, 
the  whole  materiel  of  the  plan  and  division,  are  compel- 
led and  compacted  together,  and  this  orator  falls  into  the 
same  class  with  the  Gorgiases  and  the  false  Rhetoricians 
of  all  ages.  Take  away  the  organization  of  the  Ora- 
tion for  the  Crown,  and  a  style  and  diction  a  hundred 
fold  more  brilliant  and  gorgeous  than  that  which  now 
clothes  it,  would  not  save  it  from  the  fate  of  the  false 
Rhetoric  of  all  ages. 

Such  again,  for  example,  was  the  mind  of  the  Apostle 
Paul,  and  such  was  the  character  of  his  Rhetoric.  Those 
short  epistles,  which  like  godliness  are  profitable  for  all 
things,  and  ought  to  be  as  closely  studied  by  the  sermon- 
Lzer  as  they  are  by  the  theologian,  are  as  jointed  and 
linked  in  thek  parts  as  the  human  frame  itself,  and  as 
continuous  in  the  flow  of  their  trains  of  thought  as  the  cur- 
rent of  a  river.  The  mind  of  this  great  first  preacher  to  the 
Gentiles,  this  great  first  sermonizer  to  cultivated  and  scep- 
tical Paganism,  was  also  an  organizing  mind.  How  na- 
turally does  Christian  doctrine,  as  it  comes  forth  from 
this  intellect  whose  native  characteristics  were  not  de- 
stroyed, but  only  heightened  and  purified,  by  inspira- 
tion—  how  naturally  and  inevitably  does  Christian  truth 
take  on  forms  that  are  fitly  joined  together,  and  com- 
pact<'d  by  that  which  every  joint  sup))lieth  ;  statements 
that  are  at  oiicjj  logic  and  rhetoric,  and  salisfy  bo(h  the 
reason  and  tlw;  reelings.  For  does  not  the  profoundest 
theologian  study  the  E|)istle  to  the  Romans  to  find 
iiitiniate  and  absolute  statements  in  sacred  science,  and 
does  not  the  most  unl'iiiicd  (christian  read  mid  pray  over 
this  same  epistle,  tlmt  his  devotions  may  be  kindled  and 
his  heart  made  better  ?     Does  not,  lo  use  the  illustration 


130  THE   CnARACTKKISTICS    AND 

of  the  Christian  Father,  does  not  the  lamb  find  a  ford- 
ing place  and  the  elephant  a  swimming  place  in  this 
niii^hty  unremitting  stream  ? 

This  thoroughness  in  the  elaboration  of  the  principal 
ideas  of  a  discourse,  and  this  closeness  in  compacting 
them  into  the  unity  of  a  plan,  is,  therefore,  a  prime  qual- 
ity in  eloquence,  and  it  is  that  which  connects  Rhetoric 
with  all  the  other  departments  of  human  knowledge,  or 
rather  makes  it  the  organ  by  and  through  which  these 
find  a  full  and  noble  expression.  For,  contemplated 
from  this  point  of  view,  what  is  the  orator  but  a  man  of 
culture  who  is  able  to  tell  in  round  and  full  tones  what 
he  knows  ;  and  what  is  oratory  but  the  art  whereby  the 
acquisitions  and  reflections  of  the  general  human  mind 
are  communicated  to  the  present  and  the  future.  We 
cannot,  therefore,  taking  this  view  of  the  nature  of  Rhet- 
oric as  essentially  organizing  in  its  character,  separate  it 
from  the  higher  departments  of  History,  or  Philosophy, 
or  Theology,  but  must  regard  it  as  co-ordinate  and  con- 
current with  them.  The  rhetorical  process  is  to  go  on  in 
education,  along  with  these  other  processes  of  acquisi- 
tion and  information  and  reflection,  so  that  the  final 
result  shall  be  a  mind  not  only  disciplined  inwardly  but 
manifested  outwardly  to  other  minds  ;  so  that  there  shall 
be  not  only  an  intellect  full  of  thought,  and  a  heart  beat- 
ing with  feeling,  and  an  imagination  glowing  with  im- 
agery, but  a  living  expression  of  them  all,  in  forms  of 
unity  and  simplicity  and  beauty  and  grandeur.  In  this 
way  Rhetoric  really  becomes,  what  it  was  once  claimed 
to  be,  the  very  crown  and  completion  of  all  culture,  and 
the  rhetorical  discipline,  the  last  accomplishment  in  the 
process  of  education,  when  the  man  becomes  pre})ared  to 
take  the  stand  on  the  orator's  bema  before  his  fellow 


BIPOETANCE   OF   A   NATURAL   KHETORIC.  131 

men,  and  dares  to  attempt  a  transfer  of  his  consciousness 
into  them. 

2.  The  second  characteristic  of  a  natm'al  Rhetoric  is 
the  amplifying'  power.  If  Rhetoric  should  stop  with 
the  mere  organizing  of  thought,  it  might  be  difficult 
to  distinsfuish  it  from  logic.  But  this  constructive 
talent  in  the  Rhetorician,  is  accompanied  by  another 
ability  which  is  more  purely  oratorical.  We  mean  the 
ability  to  dwell  amply  upon  an  idea  until  it  has  unfolded 
all  its  folds,  and  lays  off  richly  in  broad  full  view.  We 
mean  the  ability  to  melt  the  hard  solid  ore  w^ith  so  tho- 
rough and  glowing  a  heat,  that  it  will  run  and  spread 
like  water.  We  mean  the  ability  to  enlarge  and  illns 
trate  upon  a  condensed  and  cubic  idea,  until  its  contents 
spread  out  into  a  wide  expanse  for  the  career  of  the  im- 
agination and  the  play  of  the  feelings. 

This  union  of  an  organizing  with  an  amplifying 
power,  may  be  said  to  be  the  whole  of  Rhetoric.  He 
who  should  combine  both  in  perfect  proportions,  would 
be  the  ideal  orator  of  Cicero.  For  while  the  former  pow- 
er presents  truth  in  its  clear  and  connected  form  for  the 
understanding,  the  latter  transmutes  it  into  its  imagina- 
tive and  impassioned  forms,  and  the  product  of  these 
two  powers,  when  they  are  blended  in  one  living  energy, 
is  Eloquence.  For  Eloquence,  according  to  the  best 
definition  that  has  yet  been  given,  is  the  union  of  Philo- 
sophy and  Poetry  in  order  to  a  practical  end.*  W.ien, 
therefore,  the  logical  organization  is  ck)tiicd  upon  with 
the  imaginative  and  inipassioned  amplification,  there 
arises  "  a  combination  and  a  form  indeed  ; "  a  mental  pro- 
duct adapted  more  than  all  others  to  move  and  influence 
the  human  mind. 

•  Theremin's  Rhetoric,  Book  i.  Chapters  iii.,  iv. 


lo2  THE   CUARAOTJCKISTICS    AND 

But  we  shall  sec  still  more  clearly  into  the  essential 
characteristics  of  a  Natural  Rhetoric,  by  passing,  as  we 
now  do,  after  this  brief  analysis,  to  the  second  part  of 
oui"  discourse,  whicli  proposes  to  treat  of  the  worth  and 
importance  of  such  a  Rhetoric  to  the  preacher. 

1.  And  in  the  first  place,  a  natural  as  distinguished 
from  an  artiiicial  Rhetoric,  is  of  the  highest  worth  to  the 
preacher  because  it  is  fruitful. 

The  preacher  is  one  who,  from  the  nature  of  his  call- 
ing, is  oblig(,'d  to  originate  a  certain  amount  of  thought 
within  a  limited  period  of  time,  which  is  constantly  and 
uniformly  recurring.  One  day  in  every  seven,  as  regu- 
larly as  the  motion  of  the  globe  brings  it  around,  he  is 
compelled  to  address  his  fellow  men  upon  the  very  highest 
themes,  in  a  manner  and  to  an  extent  that  will  secure 
their  attention  and  interest.  No  profession,  consequent- 
ly, makes  such  a  steady  and  unintermittent  draught  up- 
on the  resources  of  the  mind  as  the  clerical,  and  no  man 
so  much  needs  the  aid  of  a  fertile  and  fruitful  method  of 
discoursing  as  the  Christian  preacher.  Besides  this  great 
amount  of  flunking  and  composition  that  is  required  of 
him,  he  is  moreover  shut  up  to  a  comparatively  small 
number  of  topics,  and  cannot  derive  that  assistance  from 
variety  of  subjects,  and  novelty  in  circumstances,  which 
the  secular  orator  avails  himself  of  so  readily.  The 
truths  of  Christianity  are  few  and  simple,  and  though 
ihey  are  richer  and  more  inexhaustible  than  all  others, 
they  furnish  little  that  is  novel  or  striking.  The  power 
that  is  in  them  to  interest  and  move  men,  must  be  educed 
from  their  simple  and  solid  substance,  and  not  from  their 
great  number  or  variety.  The  preacher  may,  it  is  true, 
be  able  to  maintain  a  sort  of  interest  in  his  hearers  by 
the  biographical,  or  geographical,  or  archaeological,  or 
historical,  or  literary,  accompaniments  of  the  Scriptures 

9 


EMPOETANCE   OF    A   NATURAL   EHETOEIC.  133 

but  his  permanent  influence  and  power  over  them  as  a 
preacher  must  come  from  his  ability  to  develop  clearly, 
profoundly,  and  freshly,  a  few  simple  and  unadorned 
doctrines.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  undervalue  the  impor- 
tance of  that  training  and  study,  by  which  we  are  inh-o- 
(hiced  into  that  elder  and  oriental  world  in  which  the 
Bible  had  its  origin,  and  with  whose  scenery,  manners 
and  customs',  and  modes  of  living  and  thinking,  it  will 
he  connected  to  the  end  of  time.  No  student  of  the 
Scriptures,  and  especially  no  sacred  orator,  can  make 
iiiinself  too  much  at  home  in  the  gorgeous  East ;  too 
familiar  with  that  Hebrew  spirit  which  colors  like  blood 
the  whole  Bible,  New  Testament  as  well  as  Old  Testa- 
ment. But  at  the  same  time  he  should  remember  that 
all  this  knowledge  is  only  a  means  to  an  end ;  that  he 
cannot  as  a  preacher  of  the  Word,  rely  upon  this  as  the 
last  source  wiience  he  is  to  derive  subject  matter  for  his 
thinking  and  discourse  year  after  year,  but  must  by  it  all 
be  carried  down  to  deeper  and  more  perennial  fountains, 
io  the  few  infinite  facts  and  the  few  infinite  truths  of 
Christianity. 

The  need,  therefore,  of  a  Rhetorical  method  that  is  in 
its  own  nature  fertile  and  fruitful,  is  plain.  And  what 
other  ability  can  succeed  but  that  organizing  and  ampli- 
fying power,  which  we  have  seen  to  be  the  substance  of 
ihe  Rhetoric  of  Nature  as  the  contrary  of  Art.  Through 
the  former  of  these,  the  preacher's  mind  is  led  into  the 
inmost  structure  and  fabric  of  the  individual  doctriiK;, 
and  so  of  tlie  whoU^  Christian  system;  and  through  the 
hitler  he  is  enabled  to  unroll  and  display  the  endless 
richness  of  Ihe  contents.  It  is  safe  to  say,  that  a  mind 
which  has  once  acfjuired  this  n:i(iir;il  mciliod  of  develop- 
ing and  presj-nting  Christian  truth,  camiot  be  exhausted. 
Nc  matter   how   miich   drain  may  be  made  ui)on  it,  no 


134  THE   CHARACTERISTICS   AND 

matter  how  often  it  may  be  called  upon  to  preach  the 
"  things  new  and  old,"  it  cannot  be  made  dry.  The 
more  it  is  drawn  from,  the  more  salient  and  bulging  is 
the  fulness  with  which  it  wells  up  and  pours  over.  For 
this  org-anic  method  is  the  key  and  the  clue.  He  who  is 
master  of  it,  he  with  whom  it  has  become  a  mental  hab- 
it and  process,  will  find  the  treasures  of  wisdom  and 
knowledge  in  the  Scriptures  opening  readily  and  richly 
to  him.     He  will  find  his  mind  habitually  in  the  vein. 

2.  And  this  brings  us  to  a  second  characteristic  of  a 
Natural  Rhetoric,  whereby  it  is  of  the  greatest  worth  to 
the  pn^acher,  viz.,  that  it  is  a  g'enial  and  invigorating 
method.  All  the  discipline  of  the  human  mind  ought  to 
minister  to  its  enjoyment  and  its  strength.  That  is  a 
false  method  of  discipline,  by  which  the  human  mind  is 
made  to  work  by  an  ungenial  effort,  much  more  by 
spasms  and  convulsively.  It  was  made  to  work  like  na- 
ture itself,  calmly,  continuously,  strongly,  and  happily. 
When,  therefore,  we  find  a  system  of  ti-aining,  resulting 
in  a  labored,  anxious,  intermittent,  and  irksome,  activity, 
we  may  be  sure  that  something  is  wrong  in  it.  The 
fruits  of  all  modes  of  discipline  that  conform  to  the  na- 
ture of  the  human  mind  and  the  nature  of  truth,  are  free- 
dom, boldness,  continuity,  and  pleasure,  of  execution. 
In  this  connection  weakness  and  tedium  are  faults ;  sick- 
ness is  sin. 

But  the  mental  method  for  which  we  are  pleading, 
while  making  the  most  severe  and  constant  draft  upon 
the  mental  faculties,  at  the  same  time  braces  them  and 
inspires  them  with  power.  The  mind  of  the  orator,  in 
this  slow  organization  and  continuous  amplification  of 
the  materials  with  which  it  is  laboring,  is  itself  affected 
by  a  reflex  action.  That  truth,  that  divine  truth,  which 
the  preacher  is  endeavoring  to  throw  out,  that  it  may 


IMrORTANCE    OF    A   NATURAL   RHETORIC.  135 

renovate  and  edify  the  soul  of  a  fellow  being,  at  the 
same  time  strikes  in,  and  invigorates  his  own  mind,  and 
swells  his  own  heart  with  joy. 

This  feature,  this  genial  vigor,  in  what  we  have  styled 
a  Natural  Rhetoric,  acquires  additional  importance  when 
we  recur  to  the  fact  that  has  already  been  mentioned, 
viz.,  that  inasmuch  as  Rhetoric  is  a  formal  or  instrumen- 
tal department,  its  influence  is  liable  to  become,  and  too 
often  has  become,  debilitating  to  the  human  mind. 
When  this  branch  of  discipline  becomes  artificial  and 
mechanical  in  its  character,  by  being  severed  too  much 
from  those  profounder,  and  more  solid,  departments  of 
human  knowled£:e  from  whose  root  and  fatness  it  must 
derive  all  its  nourishment  and  circulating  juices  ;  when 
Rhetoric  desjenerates  into  a  mere  collection  of  rules  for 
the  structure  of  sentences  and  the  finish  of  diction ;  no 
studies  or  training  will  do  more  to  diminish  the  resources 
of  the  mind,  and  to  benumb  and  kill  the  vitality  of 
the  soul,  than  the  Rhetorical.  The  eye  is  kept  upon  the 
form  merely,  and  no  mind,  individual  or  national,  was 
ever  made  strong  or  fertile  by  the  contemplation  of  mere 
form.  The  mind  under  such  a  tutorage  works  by  rote, 
instead  of  from  an  inward  influence  and  an  organic  law. 
In  reality,  its  action  is  a  surface-action,  which  only  irri- 
tates and  tires  out  its  powers.  Perhaps  the  strongest  ob- 
jections that  have  been  advanced  against  a  Rhetorical 
course  of  instruction,  find  their  support  and  force  here. 
Men  complain  of  the  dryness,  and  the  want  of  geniality, 
of  a  professed  Rhetorician.  The  coiiuiion  mind  is  not 
satisfied  with  his  studious  arlifice,  and  his  measured 
movements,  but  craves  something  moic  ;  it  craves  a  ro- 
bust and  hearty  utterance,  a  hale  and  lifcisomc  method. 
Notice  that  it  is  not  positively  displeased  with  this  pre- 
cision and   finish   of  th(;   Rhetorician,  but  only  with  th(» 


136  TIIK   CHARACTERISTICS    ANI) 

lack  of  a  genial  irnptilsc  under  it.  It  is  its  sins  of  omis* 
sion  that  have  brought  Rhetoric  into  disrepute. 

But  when  the  trainini^,  under  consideration,  results  in  a 
genial  and  invigorating  process,  by  which  the  profound- 
est  thinking  and  the  best  feeling  of  the  soul  are  discharg- 
ed to  the  utmost,  and  yet  the  mind  feels  the  more  buoy- 
ant for  it,  and  the  stronger  for  it,  all  such  objections  van- 
ish. There  is,  we  are  conildent,  there  is  a  method  of 
disciplining  the  mind  in  the  direction  of  Rhetoric,  and 
for  the  purposes  of  form  and  style,  that  does  not  in  the 
least  diminish  the  vigor  and  the  healthiness  of  its  natural 
processes.  If  there  is  not,  then  the  department  should 
be  annihilated.  If  there  can  be  no  Rhetorical  training  in 
the  schools,  but  such  as  is  destructive  of  the  freshness, 
and  originality,  and  geniality,  of  native  impulses  and 
native  utterances,  then  it  were  far  better  to  leave  the 
mind  to  its  unpruned  and  tangled  luxuriance ;  to  let  it 
uaiider  at  its  own  sweet  will,  and  bear  with  its  tedious 
jvindings  and  its  endless  eddies.  Here  and  there,  at 
east,  there  would  be  an  onward  movement,  and  the  in- 
spiration of  a  forward  motion.  But  it  is  not  so.  For, 
says  Shakspeare  : 

There  is  an  Art  which    .    .    .   shares 
With  great  creating  Nature. 

There  is  a  close  and  elaborate  discipline  which  is  in  har- 
mony with  the  poetry,  and  the  feeling,  and  the  eloquence, 
of  the  human  soul,  and  which,  therefore,  may  be  employ- 
ed to  evoke  and  express  it.  There  is  a  Rhetoric  which, 
when  it  has  been  wrought  into  the  mind,  and  has  be- 
come a  spontaneous  method  and  an  instinctive  habit 
with  it,  does  not  in  the  least  impair  the  elasticity  and 
vigor  of  nature,  because  in  the  phrase  of  the  same  great 


IMPORTANCE  OF  A  NATUKAI.  KHETOKIC.      137 

poet  and  master  of  form  from  whom  we  have  just  quoted, 
"  It  is  an  Art  that  Nature  makes,  or  rather  an  Art  which 
itself  is  Natm-e."  Such  a  Rhetoric  may,  indeed,  be 
defined  to  be  an  Art,  or  discipline,  which  enables  man  to 
be  natural ;  an  Art  that  simply  develops  the  genuine  and 
hearty  qualities  of  the  man  himself,  of  the  mind  itself.  — 
For  the  purpose  of  all  discipline  in  this  direction,  is  not 
to  impose  upon  the  mind  a  style  of  thought  and  expres- 
sion unnatural  and  alien  to  it,  but  simply  to  aid  the  mind 
to  be  itself,  and  to  show  itself  out  in  the  most  genuine 
and  sincere  manner.  The  Rhetorical  Art  is  to  join  on 
upon  the  nature  and  constitution  of  the  individual  man, 
so  that  what  is  given  by  creation,  and  what  is  acquired 
by  culture,  shall  be  homogeneous,  mutually  aiding  and 
aided,  reciprocally  influencing  and  influenced.  And  let 
not  this  mental  veracity,  this  tnithfulness  to  a  man's 
individualitv  and  mental  structure,  be  thous^ht  to  be  an 
easy  acquisition.  It  is  really  the  last  and  highest  accom- 
plishment. It  is  a  very  difficult  thing  for  a  discourser  to 
be  himself,  genuinely  and  without  aflectation.  It  is  a 
still  more  difficult  thing  for  an  orator,  a  man  who  has 
come  out  before  a  fistening  and  criticising  auditory,  to  be 
himself;  genuinely,  fearlessly  and  without  mannerism, 
communicating  himself  to  his  auditors  precisely  as  he 
really  is.  A  simj)le  and  natural  style,  says  Pascal,  always 
strikes  us  with  a  sort  of  surprise  ;  for  while  we  are  on  the 
lookout  for  an  aiil/mr,  we  find  a  inan,  while  we  are  expect- 
ing a  formal  art,  we  find  a  throbbing  heart.  Tliis  is 
really  the  highest  grade  of  culture,  and  the  point  toward 
which  it  should  always  aim,  viz:  to  bring  Nature  out  by 
means  of  art;  and  Rhetorical  discipline,  instead  of  leav- 
ing the  pupil  ten-fold  more  formal  and  artificial  than  it 
found  hinj,  ought  to  send  him  out  among  men,  the  most 


138  THE   CnARACTERISTICS   AND 

artless,  the  most  lioarty,  and  the  most  genuine,  man  of 
them  all. 

Now  of  what  untold  worth  is  such  a  mental  method 
and  habit  to  the  preacher  of  the  Word !  On  this  method, 
literally  and  without  a  metaphor,  the  more  he  works  the 
stronger  he  becomes,  the  more  he  toils  the  hap))ier  he  is. 
He  tinds  the  invention  and  composition  of  discourse  a 
means  of  self-culture  and  of  self-enjoyment.  He  finds 
that  that  labor  to  which  he  has  devoted  his  life,  and  tz. 
which,  perhaps,  in  the  outset,  he  went  with  something  ol 
a  hii'eling's  feeling,  is  no  irksome  task,  but  the  source  ol 
the  noblest  and  most  buoyant  happiness.  That  steady 
unintermittent  drain  upon  his  thought  and  his  feeling 
which  he  feared  would  soon  exsiccate  his  brain  and  leave 
his  heart  dry  as  powder,  he  finds  is  only  an  outlet  for  the 
ever  accumidating  waters  I 

This  invigorating  and  genial  influence  of  the  Rhetori- 
cal method  now  under  consideration,  furthermore,  is  of 
special  worih  in  the  present  state  of  the  world.  There 
never  was  a  time  when  the  general  mind  was  so  impa- 
tient of  dulness  as  now.  He  who  addresses  audiences 
at  the  present  day  must  be  vigorous  and  invigorating,  or 
he  is  nothing.  Hence  the  temptation,  which  is  too  often 
yielded  to  by  the  sacred  orator,  to  leave  the  legitimate 
field  of  Christian  discourse  and  to  range  in  that  border 
land  which  skirts  it,  or  perhaps  to  pass  into  a  region  of 
thought  that  is  really  profane  and  secular.  The  preacher 
feels  the  need  of  saying  something  fresh,  vigorous,  and 
genial,  and  not  being  able  to  discourse  in  this  style  upon 
the  old  and  standing  themes  of  the  Bible,  he  endeavors 
to  christianize  those  secular  and  temporal  themes  with 
which  the  general  mind  is  already  too  intensely  occupied, 
that  he  may  find  in  them  subjects  for  entertaining,  and, 
as  he  thinks,  original  discourse      But  this  course  on  the 


EMPOETANCE    OF    A   NATURAL    RHETORIC.  139 

part  of  the  Christian  minister,  mnst  always  end  in  the 
decline  of  spiritual  religion,  both  in  his  own  heart  and  in 
that  of  the  Church.  Nothing,  in  the  long  run,  is  truly 
edifying  to  the  Christian  man  or  the  Christian  Church, 
that  is  not  really  religious.  Nothing  can  renovate  and 
banctify  the  earthly  mind,  but  that  which  is  in  its  own 
nature  spiritual  and  supernatural.  Not  that  which 
resembles  Christian  truth,  or  which  may  be  modified  or 
aflfected  by  Christian  truth,  can  convict  of  sin  and  con- 
vert to  God,  but  only  the  substantial  and  real  Christian 
truth  itself.  Nothing  but  material  fire  can  be  relied  upon 
as  a  central  sun,  as  a  radiating  centre. 

The  Christian  preacher  is  thus  shut  up  to  the  old  and 
uniform  system  of  Christianity  in  an  age  when,  more 
than  in  any  other,  men  are  seeking  for  some  new  thing ; 
when  they  are  seeking  and  demanding  stimulation,  invig- 
oration,  animation,  and  impression.  His  only  true 
course,  therefore,  is  to  find  the  new  in  the  old ;  to  become 
so  penetrated  with  the  spirit  of  Christianity,  that  he  shall 
breathe  it  out  from  his  own  mind  and  heart,  upon  his 
congregation,  in  as  fresh  and  fiery  a  tongue  of  flame  as 
that  which  restec*  upon  the  disciples  on  the  day  of  Pen- 
tecost ;  to  enter  so  thoroughly  into  the  genius  and  spirit 
of  the  Christian  system,  that  it  shall  exhibit  itself,  through 
him,  with  an  originality  and  newness  kindred  to  that  of 
its  first  inspired  preachers,  and  precisely  like  that  which 
characterizes  the  sermonizing  of  the  Augustines  and  the 
Bernards,  the  Luthers  anrl  the  Calvins,  the  Leightons, 
the  Howes,  and  the  Edwardses,  of  the  Church.  What 
renders  the  sermons  of  these  men  so  vivific  and  so  invig- 
orating to  those  who  study  them,  and  to  the  audiences 
who  heard  them  ?  Not  the  variety  or  striking  character 
of  the  topics,  hut  the  tlioroughiiess  with  which  the  truth 
was  conceived  and  elaborated  in   their  minds.     Not  an 


14C  THE   CHARACTERISTICS    AND 

artilk'kil  Rhetoric,  polishing  and  garnishing  the  outside 
of  a  subject  in  wliich  the  mind  has  no  interest,  and  into 
ihi>  interior  of  which  it  has  not  penetrated  ;  but  an  organ- 
izing Rhetoric,  ^\  hereby  the  sermon  shot  up  out  of  the 
great  Christian  system,  like  a  bud  out  of  the  side  of  a 
great  trunk  or  a  great  limb,  part  and  particle  of  the  great 
Avhole ;  an  amplifying  Rhetoric  whereby  the  sermon  was 
the  mere  evolution  of  an  involution,  the  swelling,  burst- 
ing, leafing  out,  blossoming,  and  fructuation,  of  this  bud. 

3.  And  this  brings  us,  in  the  third  place,  to  the  worth 
of  this  Rhetorical  method  to  the  preacher,  because  it  is 
closely  connected  with  his  theological  training  and  disci- 
pline. 

It  is  plain,  from  w^hat  has  been  said,  that  eloquent 
preaching  cannot  originate  without  profound  theological 
knowledge.  The  eloquent  preacher  is  simply  the  thorough 
theologian  who  has  now  gone  out  of  his  study,  and  up 
into  the  pulpit.  In  other  words,  eloquence  in  this  as 
well  as  in  every  other  instance  is  founded  in  knowledge. 
Cicero  says  that  Socrates  was  wont  to  say  that  all  men 
are  eloquent  enough  on  subjects  whereon  they  have 
knowledge  ;  *  a  saying  which  re-appears  in  the  common 
and  homely  rule  for  eloquence,  "  Have  something  to  say, 
and  then  say  it." 

Hence  a  Rhetorical  training  which  does  not  sustain 
intimate  relations  to  the  general  culture  and  discipline 
of  the  pupil,  is  worthless.  At  no  point  does  an  artificial 
Rhetoric  betray  itself  so  quickly  and  so  certainly  as  here. 
We  feel  that  it  has  no  intercommunication  with  the 
character  and  acquisitions  of  the  individual.  It  is  a 
foreign  method,  which  he  has  adopted  by  a  volition,  and 

*  De  Oratore,  i.  14. 


IMPOKTANCE  OF  A  NATURAL  RHETORIC.       141 

not  a  spontaneous  one  which  has  sprung  up  out  of  his 
character  and  culture,  and  is  in  perfect  sympathy  with  it. 
But  the  Rhetoric  of  nature  has  all  the  theological  train- 
ing of  the  preacher  back  of  it  as  its  support,  beneath  it  as 
its  soil  and  nutriment.  All  that  he  has  become  by  long 
years  of  study  and  reflection,  goes  to  maintain  him  as  a 
Rhetorician,  so  that  his  oratory  is  really  the  full  and 
powerful  display  of  what  he  is  and  has  become  by  vigor- 
ous professional  study.  The  Rhetoric  is  the  man  him- 
self. 

In  this  way,  a  showy  and  tawdry  manner  is  inevitably 
avoided,  as  it  always  should  be,  by  the  preacher.  It  can- 
not be  said  of  him,  as  it  can  be  of  too  many,  "  He  is  a 
mere  Rhetorician."  For  this  professional  study,  this 
lofty  and  calm  theological  discipline,  this  solemn  care  of 
human  souls,  this  sacred  professional  character,  will  all 
show  themselves  in  his  general  style  and  manner,  and 
preclude  every  thing  ostentatious  or  gaudy,  much  more 
every  thing  scenic  or  theatrical.  The  form  will  corres- 
pond to  the  matter.  The  matter  being  the  most  solemn 
and  most  weighty  truth  of  God,  the  form  will  be  the 
most  chastened,  the  most  symmetrical,  and  the  most 
commanding,  manner  of  man. 

And  in  this  way,  again,  the  rhetorical  training  of  the 
preacher  will  exert  a  reilex  inlluence  upon  his  theologi- 
cal training.  A  true  sacred  Rhetoric  is  a  sort  of  practi- 
cal theology,  and  is  so  styled  in  some  nomenclatures.  It 
is  a  praclical  expansion  and  exhibition  of  a  scientific 
aystem  for  the  purpose  of  inliuencing  the  popular  mind. 
When,  therefore,  it  is  well  conceived  and  well  handled,  it 
exerts  a  rcllex  influcnee  uj)on  theological  science  itself, 
that  is  beneficial  in  the  highest  degree.  It  cannot,  it  is 
true,  change;  the  nature  and  suhstancc;  of  the  truth,  but  it; 
can  bring  it  out  into  distinct  consciousness      The  ellbrt 


142  TIIK    CllA-liACTEKISTICS    AND 

to  popularize  scientific  knowledge,  the  endeavor  to  put 
logic  into  the  form  of  rhetoric,  imparts  a  clearness  to  con- 
ceptions, and  a  determination  to  opinions,  that  cannot 
be  attained  in  the  closet  of  the  mere  speculatist.  Not 
umil  a  man  has  endeavored  to  transfer  his  conceptions; 
not  until  he  has  pushed  his  way  through  the  confusion 
and  misunderstandings  of  another  man's  mind,  and  has 
tried  to  lodge  his  views  in  it ;  does  he  know  the  full 
significance  and  scope  of  even  his  own  knowledge. 

But  especially  is  this  action  and  re-action  between 
theology  and  sacred  Rhetoric  of  the  highest  worth  to  the 
preacher,  because  it  results  in  a  due  mingling  of  the  the- 
oretic and  the  practical  in  his  preaching.  The  desidera- 
tum in  a  sermon  is  such  an  exact  proportion  between 
doctrine  and  practice,  such  thorough  fusion  of  these  two 
elements,  that  the  discourse  at  once  instructs  and  impels ; 
and  he  who  supphes  this  desideratum  in  his  sermonizing, 
is  a  powerful,  influential,  and  eloquent,  preacher.  He 
may  lack  many  other  minor  things,  but  he  has  the  main 
thing  ;  and  in  time  these  other  minor  things  shall  all  be 
added  unto  him.  In  employing  a  Rhetoric  tiiat  is  at 
once  organizing  and  amplifying  in  its  nature  and  influ- 
ence, the  theological  discipline  and  culture  of  the  preacher 
are  kept  constantly  growing  and  vigorous.  Every  sermon 
that  is  composed  on  this  method,  sets  the  whole  body  of 
his  acquisitions  into  motion,  and,  like  a  bucket  continu- 
ally plunged  down  into  a  well  and  continually  drawn  up 
full  and  dripping,  aerates  a  mass  that  would  otherwise 
grow  stagnant  and  putrid. 

4.  Fourthly  and  finally,  the  worth  of  a  natm-al,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  an  artificial.  Rhetoric,  is  seen  in  the  fact 
that  it  is  connected,  most  intimately,  vnlh  the  vital  reli- 
gion of  the  man  and  the  preacher.     For  no  Rhetpric  can 


rSlPOETANCE   OF   A   XATUKAL    KHETOEIC.  143 

be  organizing  and  vivifying,  that  is  not  itself  organic  and 
alive.  Only  that  which  has  in  itself  a  living  principle, 
can  communicate  life.  Only  that  which  is  itself  vigor- 
ous, can  invigorate.  The  inmost  essential  principle, 
therefore,  of  a  Rhetoric  that  is  to  be  employed  in  the  ser- 
vice of  rehgion,  must  be  this  very  reUgion  itself:  deep, 
vital,  piety  in  the  soul  of  the  sacred  orator.  Even  the 
pagan  Cato,  and  the  pagan  Quinctilian  after  him,  made 
goodness,  integiity  and  uprightness  of  character,  the 
foundation  of  eloquence  in  a  secular  sphere,  and  for  se- 
cular purposes.  The  orator,  they  said,  is  an  upright 
man,  first  of  all  an  upright  man,  who  understands  speak- 
ing. How  much  more  true  then  is  it,  that  Christian 
character  is  the  font  and  origin  of  all  Christian  elo- 
quence ;  that  the  sacred  orator  is  a  holy  man,  first  of  all 
a  hohj  man,  w  ho  understands  speaking. 

We  shall  not,  surely,  be  suspected  of  wishing  to  un- 
dervalue or  disparage  a  department  to  which  we  propose 
to  consecrate  our  whole  time  and  attention,  and,  there- 
fore, we  may  with  the  more  boldness  say,  that  we  have 
always  cherished  a  proper  respect  for  that  theory  which 
has  been  more  in  vogue  in  some  other  denominations 
than  in  our  own,  that  the  preacher  is  to  speak  as  the 
spirit  moves  him.  Tliere  is  a  great  and  solid  truth  at 
the  bottom  of  it,  and  though  the  theory  unquestionably 
does  not  need  to  be  licld  up  very  particularly  before  an 
uneducated  ministry,  we  think  there  is  comparatively  lit- 
tle danger  in  reminding  the  educated  man,  the  man  who 
has  been  trained  by  the  rules  and  maxims  of  a  formal 
and  systematic  disci])line,  that  the  sj^ring  of  all  his  ])OW- 
er,  as  a  Christian  jircachcr,  is  a  living  siiriii^j;.  It  is  well 
for  the  sacred  orator,  who  has  ))assed  tiirough  a  long  col- 
legiate and  professional  training,  and  has  been  taught 
sermonizing  as   an   art,  to  be   n.'ininded  that   the  living 


144:  THE   OIIARACTERIRTIOS    AND 

principle,  which  is  to  render  all  this  culture  of  use  for 
purposes  of  practical  impression,  is  vital  godliness ;  that 
he  will  be  able  to  assimilate  all  this  material  of  Christian 
eloquence,  only  in  proportion  as  he  is  a  devout  and  holy 
man.  Without  this  interior  religious  life  in  his  soul,  all 
his  resources  of  intellect,  of  memory,  and  of  imagination, 
will  be  unimpressive  and  inetlectual;  the  mere  iron  shields 
and  gold  ornaments  that  crush  the  powerless  Tarpeia. 

For  the  first  and  indispensable  thing  in  every  instance 
is  power.  Given  an  inward  and  living  power,  and  a 
basis  for  motion,  action,  and  impression,  is  given.  In 
every  instance  we  come  back  to  this  ultimate  point. 
There  is  a  theory  among  philosophers,  that  this  hard, 
material  world,  over  which  we  stumble,  and  against 
which  we  strike,  is  at  bottom  trwo  forces  or  powers, 
held  in  equilibrium  ;  that  when  we  get  back  to  the  real- 
ity of  the  hard  and  dull  clod,  upon  which  "  the  swain 
treads  with  clouted  shoon,"  we  find  it  to  be  just  as  im- 
material, just  as  mobile,  just  as  nimble,  and  just  as  much 
a  living  energy,  as  the  soul  of  man  itself.  Whether  this 
be  truth  or  not  within  the  sphere  of  matter,  one  thing  is 
certain,  that  within  the  sphere  of  mind  we  are  brought 
back  to  forces,  to  fresh  and  living  energies,  in  every  in- 
stance in  which  the  human  soul  makes  an  eloquent  im- 
pression, or  receives  one.  Examine  an  oration,  secular 
or  sacred,  that  actually  moved  the  minds  of  men,  a 
speech  that  obtained  votes,  or  a  sermon  that,  as  we  say, 
saved  souls,  and  you  find  the  ultimate  cause  of  this  elo- 
quence, so  far  as  man  is  concerned,  to  be  a  vilal  power 
in  the  orator.  The  same  amount  of  instruction  might 
have  been  imparted,  the  same  general  style  and  diction 
might  have  been  employed  in  both  cases,  but  if  that  elo- 
quent povjer  in  the  man  had  been  wanting,  there  woul(J 


niPOETANCE   OF   A   NATUEAL   EHETOEIC.  145 

have  been  no  actuation  of  the  hearer,  and  consequently 
no  eloquence. 

It  is,  therefore  a  gi-eat  and  crowning  excellence  of  the 
Rhetorical  method  which  we  have  been  describing,  that 
its  lowest  and  longest  roots  strike  down  into  the  Chris- 
tian character  itself.  It  does  not  propose  or  expect  to 
render  the  preacher  eloquent  without  personal  religion. 
It  tells  him  on  the  contrary,  that  although  God  is  the 
creator  and  sovereign  of  the  human  soul,  and  can  there- 
fore render  the  tiaith  preached  by  an  unregenerate  man 
and  in  the  most  unfeeling  irreligious  manner,  eflbctualto 
salvation,  yet  that  tlie  preacher  must  expect  to  see  men 
moved  by  his  discourses,  only  in  proportion  as  he  is  him- 
self a  spiritually-minded,  solemn,  and  devout  wvau.  Here 
is  the  poioer,  and  hove  is  its  hiding  place,  so  far  as  the 
finite  agent  is  concerned.  In  that  holy  love  of  God  and 
of  the  human  soul,  which  Christianity  enjoins  and  pro- 
duces; in  that  religious  affection  of  the  soul  which  takes 
its  origin  in  the  soul's  regeneration ;  the  preacher  is  to 
find  the  source  of  all  his  eloquence  and  impression  as  an 
orator,  just  as  much  as  of  his  usefulness  and  happiness 
as  a  man  and  a  Christian.  Back  to  this  last  centre  of 
all,  do  we  trace  all  that  is  genuine,  and  powerful,  and 
influential,  in  Pulpit  Eloquence. 

But  by  this  is  not  meant  merely  that  the  preacher  must 
be  a  man  of  zealous  and  fervid  emotions.  There  is  a 
species  of  eloquence,  which  springs  out  of  easily  excited 
sensibilities,  and  which  oftentimes  produces  a  great  sen- 
sation ill  audiences  of  peculiar  characi eristics,  and  in 
some  particular  moods.  But  this  eloquence  of  llie  flesh 
and  the  blood,  without  the  brain;  this  eloquence  of  the 
animal,  without  the  intellectual  spirits;  is  very  different 
from  that  dee|)-toned,  that  soleinn,  tli:it  eomin:iiiding  (elo- 
quence, wliich  springs  from  the  lilc  ul   God  in  the  soul 


Ll()  TlIK    CIlAUAcnMClilSTIOS    AND 

of  man  We  feel  the  difference,  all  men  feel  the  differ- 
ence, between  the  impression  made  by  an  ardent  but  su- 
pcrfu'ial  emotion,  and  that  made  by  a  deep  feeling  ;  by 
the  sustained,  equable,  and  strong,  pulsation  of  religious 
affections,  as  distinguished  from  religious  sensibilities. 
When  a  man  of  the  latter  stamp  feels,  we  know  that  he 
feels  upon  good  grounds  and  in  reality;  that  this  stir  and 
movement  of  the  affections  is  central  and  all-pervading 
in  him  ;  that  the  eternal  truth  has  taken  hold  of  his  emo- 
tive nature,  moving  the  luhole  of  it,  as  the  trees  of  the 
wood  are  moved  with  the  wind.  It  is  this  moral  earnest- 
ness of  a  man  who  habitually  feels  that  religion  is  the 
chief  concern  for  mortals  here  below  ;  it  is  this  profound 
consciousness  of  the  perfections  of  God  and  of  the  worth 
of  the  human  soul;  which  is  the  inmost  principle  of 
sacred  eloquence,  the  vis  vivida  vitce  of  the  sacred  orator. 

I  have  thus,  as  briefly  as  possible,  exhibited  the  princi- 
pal featm-es  of  what  is  conceived  to  be  a  true  method 
in  rhetorical  instruction  and  discipline  ;  not  because 
they  are  new,  or  different  from  the  views  of  the  best 
Rhetoricians  of  all  ages,  but  merely  to  indicate  the  gen- 
eral spirit  in  which  I  would  hope,  by  the  blessing  of 
God,  to  conduct  the  department  of  instruction  commit- 
ted to  my  care  by  the  guardians  of  this  Seminary.  The 
department  of  Sacred  Rhetoric  and  Pastoral  Theology  is 
one  that,  from  the  nature  of  the  case,  is  not  called  upon 
to  impart  veiy  much  positive  information.  Its  function 
is  rather  to  induce  an  intellectual  method,  to  form  a 
mental  habit,  to  communicate  a  general  spirit  to  the  fu- 
ture clergyman.  It  is,  therefore,  a  department  of  grow- 
ing importance  in  this  country,  and  in  the  present  state 
of  society  and  the  Church.  Perhaps  the  general  tone 
and  temper  of  the  clerical  profession  was  never  a  matter 


IMPOETANCE    OF   A  NATURAL   KHETOKIC.  147 

of  more  importance  than  now.  The  world,  and  thia 
country  especially,  is  guided  more  and  more  by  the  gen* 
eral  tendencies  of  particular  classes  and  professions.  In 
politics,  a  party  or  class,  that  really  has  a  tendency,  and 
maintains  it  persistently  for  a  length  of  time,  is  sure  in 
the  end  to  draw  large  masses  after  it.  In  reforms,  a 
class  that  is  pervaded  by  a  distinctive  spirit,  which  it 
sedulously  preserves  and  maintains,  is  sure  of  a  wide  in- 
fluence, finally.  In  literature,  or  philosophy,  or  theology,  a 
school  that  has  a  marked  and  determined  character  of  its 
own,  and  keeps  faith  with  it,  will  in  the  course  of  time 
be  rewarded  for  its  self-consistency  by  an  increase  in 
numbers  and  in  power.  In  all  these  cases,  and  in  all 
other  cases,  the  steady,  continuous  stream  of  a  general 
tendency  sucks  into  its  own  volume  all  the  float  and 
drift,  and  carries  it  along  with  it.  And  the  eye  of  the 
reflecting  observer,  a>»  it  ranges  over  the  ocean  of  Amer- 
ican society,  can  see  these  currents  and  tendencies,  as 
plainly  as  the  eye  of  the  mariner  sees  the  Gulf-stream. 

How  important,  then,  is  any  position  which  makes  the 
occupant  to  contribute  to  the  formation  of  a  general 
spirit  and  temper,  in  so  influential  a  class  of  men  as  the 
clerical!  WeU  may  such  an  one  say,  Who  is  suflicient 
for  this  thing?  For  myself,  I  should  shrink  altogether 
from  this  toil,  and  this  responsibility,  did  I  not  dare  to 
hope  that  the  providence  of  that  Being,  wlio  is  the 
sovereign  controller  of  all  tendencies  and  all  movements 
in  the  universe,  has  led  me  hither.  In  his  strength  would 
I  labor,  and  to  Ilim  would  I  reverently  commend  myself 
and  this  institution. 


THE  RELATION  OF  LANGUAGE,  AND  STYLE, 
TO  THOUGHT.* 


"  It  is  a  trath,"  (says  Hartung  in  beginning  his  subtle 
and  profound  work  on  the  Greek  Particles,)  "  as  simple 
as  it  is  fruitful,  tiiat  language  is  no  arbitrary,  artificial, 
and  gradual  invention  of  the  reflective  understanding, 
but  a  necessary  and  organic  product  of  human  nature,  ap- 
pearing contemporaneously  with  the  activity  of  thought,. 
Speech  is  the  correlate  of  thought ;  both  require  and  condi- 
tion each  other  like  body  and  soul,  and  are  developed  at 
the  same  time  and  in  the  same  degree,  both  in  the  case  of 
the  individual  and  the  nation.  Words  are  the  coinage  of 
conceptions  freeing  themselves  from  the  dark  chaos  of 
intimations  and  feelings,  and  gaining  shape  and  clear- 
ness. In  so  far  as  a  man  uses  and  is  master  of  language, 
has  he  also  attained  clearness  of  thought;  the  developed 
and  spoken  language  of  a  people  is  its  expressed  intelli- 
gence."! Consonant  with  this,  William  Humboldt  re- 
marks that  "speech  must  be  regarded  as  naturally  iniie- 
rent  in  man,  for  it  is  altogether  inexplicable  as  a  work 
of  his  inventive  understiuiding.  We  are  none  the  bet- 
ter for  allowing  thousands  of  years  for  its  invention. 

*  Reprinted  from  the  IJihliotlieoii  Sacra;  Nov.  1848,  and  .Tiily  isr»|. 
t  rartikulii  J.eluo,  IJd.  I.  (j^  1,  2. 


150      RELATION  OF  LANGUAGE  TO  THOUGHT. 

Tluuv  could  be  no  invention  of  language  unless  its  type 
already  existed  in  the  human  mind.  Man  is  man  only 
by  means  of  speech ;  but  in  order  to  invent  speech  he 
nmst  be  already  man." 

In  these  extracts  it  is  asserted  that  language  is  an  or- 
ganic  })roduct  of  which  thought  is  the  organizing  and 
vitalizing  principle.  Writers  upon  language  have  gene- 
rally acknowledged  a  connection  of  some  sort  between 
thought  and  language,  but  they  have  not  been  unanimous 
with  respect  to  the  nature  of  the  coimection.  The  com- 
mon assertions  that  language  is  the  "dress"  of  thought  — 
is  the  "vehicle"  of  thought — point  to  an  outward  and 
mechanical  connection  between  the  two :  while  the  fine 
remark  of  "Wordsworth  that  "  language  is  not  so  much 
the  dress  of  thought  as  its  incarnation,"  and  the  frequent 
comparison  of  the  relation  which  they  bear  to  each  other, 
with  that  w^hich  exists  between  the  body  and  the  soul, 
indicate  that  a  vital  connection  is  believed  to  exist  be- 
tw^een  language  and  thought. 

The  correctness  of  this  latter  doctrine  becomes  appa- 
rent when  it  is  considered  that  everything  growing  out 
of  human  nature,  in  the  process  of  its  development  and 
meeting  its  felt  wants,  is  of  necessity  living  in  its 
essence,  and  cannot  be  regarded  as  a  dead  mechanical 
contrivance.  That  language  has  such  a  natm*al  and 
sjiontaneous  origin  is  evident  from  the  fact,  that  history 
gives  no  account  of  any  language  which  was  the  direct 
invention  of  any  one  man,  or  set  of  men,  to  supply  the 
wants  of  a  nation  utterly  destitute  of  the  ability  to  eX' 
press  its  thought.  Individuals  have  bestowed  an  alpha- 
bet, a  written  code  of  laws,  useful  mechanical  inventions, 
upon  their  countrymen,  but  no  individual  ever  bestowed 
a  language.  This  has  its  origin  in  human  nature,  oi 
rather  in  that  constitutional  necessity,  under  which  hu 


KbLATION    OF    LANGUAGE    TO    THOUGHT.  151 

man  nature  in  common  with  all  creation  is  placed  by 
Him  who  sees  the  end  from  the  beginning,  which  com 
pels  the  invisible  to  become  visible,  the  formless  to  take 
form,  the  intelligible  to  corporealize  itself.  That  thought 
is  invisible  and  spiritual  in  essence,  is  granted  by  aU  sys- 
tems of  philosophy  except  the  coarsest  and  most  unphi- 
losophic  materialism.  It  is  therefore  subject  to  the  uni- 
versal law,  and  must  become  sensuous  —  must  be  com,' 
mimicated. 

In  the  case  of  the  primitive  language,  spoken  by  the 
first  human  pair*,  we  must  conceive  of  it  as  a  g-ift  ffom  the 
Creator,  perfectly  correspondent,  like  aU  their  other  en- 
dowments, to  the  wants  of  a  living  soul.  As  in  this  first 
instance  the  bodily  form  reached  its  height  of  being  and 
of  beauty,  not  through  the  ordinary  processes  of  genera- 
tion, birth,  and  growth,  but  as  an  instantaneous  creation  ; 
so  too  the  form  of  thought,  language,  passed  through  no 
stages  of  development  (as  some  teacli)  from  the  inarticu- 
late cry  of  the  brute,  to  the  articulate  and  intelligent 
tones  of  cultivated  man,  but  came  into  full  and  finished 
existence  simultaneously  with  the  fiat  that  called  the 
full-formed  soul  and  body  into  being.  It  would  not 
have  been  a  perfect  creation,  had  the  first  man  stood 
inute  in  mature  manhood,  and  that  too  in  his  unfallen 
state  and  amidst  the  beauty  and  glory  of  Eden.  As  the  pos- 
terity of  the  first  man  come  into  existence  by  a  process, 
and  as  both  soul  and  body  in  their  case  undergo  develop- 
ment before  reaching  the  points  of  bloom  and  maturity, 
language  also  in  llieir  case  is  a  slow  and  gradual  forma- 
tion. It  begins  with  the  dawn  of  reflective  conscious- 
ness, and  unfolds  itself  as  this  becomes  deeper  and  clear- 
er. In  the  infancy  of  a  nation  it  is  exciuisitely  fitted  for 
the  lyrical  expression  of  those  thonghts  and  feelings 
which  rise   simple  and   sincere  in   the  jialioiml  mind  and 


152       RELATION  OF  LANGUAGE  TO  THOUGHT. 

heart,  before  philosopliical  reflection  has  rendered  them 
complex,  or  advancing  civilization  has  dried  np  their 
fret^iniess.  As  the  period  of  fancy  and  feeling  passes 
by  and  that  of  reason  and  reflection  comes  in,  language 
becomes  more  rigid  and  precise  in  its  structure,  conforms 
itself  to  the  expression  of  profound  thought,  and  history 
and  i)hilosoj)hy  take  the  place  of  the  ballad  and  the 
chronicle. 

Now  the  point  to  be  observed  here  is,  that  this  whole 
process  is  spontaneous  and  natural;  is  a  gi-owth  and 
not  a  manufacture.  Thought  embodies  itself,  even  as 
the  merely  animal  life  becomes  sensuous  and  sensible) 
through  its  own  tendency  and  activity.  When  investi- 
gating language,  therefore,  we  are  really  within  the 
spliere  of  life  and  living  organization,  and  to  attempt  its 
comprehension  by  means  of  mechanical  principles  would 
be  as  absurd  as  to  attempt  to  apprehend  the  phenomena 
of  the  animal  kingdom  by  the  principles  that  regulate, 
the  ijUvestigation  of  inorganic  nature.  It  is  only  by  the 
application  of  dynamical  principles,  of  the  doctrine  of 
life,  that  we  can  get  a  true  view  of  language  or  be  en- 
abled to  use  it  with  power. 

It  is  assumed  then  that  thought  is  the  life  of  language ; 
and  this  too  in  no  figurative  sense  of  the  word,  but  in  its 
strict  scientific  signification  as  denoting  the  principle 
that  organizes  and  vivifies  the  form  in  which  it  makes 
its  appearance.  It  is  assumed  that  thought  is  as  really 
the  living  principle  of  language  as  the  soul  is  the  life  of 
the  body,  and  the  assumption  verifies  itself  by  the  clear- 
ness which  it  introduces  into  the  investigation  of  the  sub- 
ject, and  by  the  light  which  it  flares  into  its  darker  and 
more  mysterious  parts.  That  fusion,  for  instance,  of  the 
thoughts  with  the  words, which  renders  the  discourse  of 
the  poet  glowing  and  tremulous  with  feeling  and  life 


RELATION  OF  LANGUAGE  TO  THOUGHT.       153 

can  be  explained  upon  no  other  supposition  than  that 
the  immaterial  entity  born  of  beauty  in  the  poet's  mind 
actually  materializes  itself,  and  thus  enlivens  the  other- 
wise lifeless  syllables.  Nothing  but  a  vital  connection 
with  the  thoughts  that  breathe,  can  account  for  the 
words  that  burn. 

"We  are  not  therefore  to  look  upon  language  as  having 
intrinsic  existence,  separate  from  the  thought  which  it 
conveys,  but  as  being  external  thought,  expressed  thought. 
Words  were  not  first  invented,  and  then  assigned  to 
conceptions  as  their  arbitrary,  and  intrinsically  meau' 
ingless  signs ;  mere  indices,  having  no  more  inward  con 
nection  with  the  things  indicated,  than  the  algebraiw 
marks,  -|-  and  — ,  have  with  the  notions  of  increase  and 
diminution.  In  the  order  of  nature,  language  follows 
rather  than  precedes  thought,  and  is  subject  to  all  itd 
modifications  from  its  first  rise  in  the  consciousness  of 
the  individual  and  the  nation,  up  to  that  of  the  philoso- 
pher and  the  philosophic  age  in  a  nation's  history.  Lan- 
guage in  essence  is  thought,  is  thought  in  an  outward 
form,  and  consequently  cannot  exist,  or  be  the  object  of 
reflection  dissevered  from  the  vital  principle  which  sub- 
stantiates it.  The  words  of  the  most  thoughtless  man 
do  nevertheless  contain  some  meaning,  and  words  have 
effect  upon  us  only  in  proportion  as  they  arc  filled  with 
thought. 

And  this  fulness  must  not  be  conceived  of  as  flowing 
into  empty  moulds  already  prepared.  It  is  a  statement 
of  one  of  the  most  jjrofound  investigators  of  jjliysical  life, 
that  th(!  living  power  merely  added  to  the  dead  organ  is 
not  life;*  i.  e.  that  no  iiifcnsity  whatever  of  physieal  life 

*  Cnrus'  Physiologic,  Bd.  1.  Vorrcdc.  He  denies  tlic  rorrcctncss  of  tho 
following  formula  iijion  whi(!li,  he  nflirms,  tlic  mechanical  school  of  pliysi- 
ulogists  iiiocecds :   toiltes  Uigan  -j-  Kraft  —  Lebeii. 


l.')!  Ri:i,Aru)N  OK  langiagic  to  thoug.ut. 

stiranu'J  upon  and  Ihrough  a  dead  hand  lying  upon  a 
dissecting  table  can  produce  life  in  the  form  of  the  liv- 
ing member.  The  living  member  cannot  come  into  ex- 
istence except  as  growing  out  of  a  living  body,  and  the 
living  body  cannot  come  into  existence  unless  life,  the 
innnalerial  and  invisible,  harden  into  the  materiality  and 
burst  into  the  visibility  of  a  minute  seminal  point  which 
teems  and  swells  with  the  whole  future  organism ;  a 
point  or  dot  of  life  from  which  as  a  centre,  the  radiation, 
tht;  organization,  and  the  circulation  may  commence. 
In  like  manner  it  is  impossible,  if  it  were  conceivable, 
to  produce  human  language  by  the  superinduction  of 
thought  upon,  or  by  the  assignation  of  meaning  to,  a 
mass  of  unmeaning  sounds  already  in  existence.  When 
a  conception  comes  into  the  consciousness  of  one  mind, 
and  seeks  expression  that  it  may  enter  the  consciousness 
of  another  mind,  it  must  be  conceived  of  as  uttering  it- 
self in  a  word  which  is  not  taken  at  hap-hazard,  and 
which  might  have  been  any  other  arbitrary  sound,  but 
which  is  prompted  and  formed  by  the  creative  thought 
striiggling  out  of  the  world  of  mind,  and  making  use  of 
the  vocal  organs  in  order  to  enter  the  world  of  sense. 

We  cannot,  it  is  true,  verify  all  this  by  reference  to  all 
the  words  we  are  in  the  habit  of  using  every  day,  be- 
cause we  are  too  far  off  from  the  period  of  their  origin, 
and  l)ecause  they  are  oftentimes  combinations  of  simple 
sounds  that  were  originally  formed  by  vocal  organs  dif- 
fering from  our  own  by  marked  peculiarities,  yet  the 
sinijjlicity  and  naturalness  of  the  Greek  of  Homer,  or 
the  English  of  Chaucer,  which  is  no  other  than  the  affi- 
nity of  the  language  with  the  thought,  the  sympathy  of 
the  sound  with  the  sense,  cause  us  to  feel  what  in  the 
present  state  of  philology  most  certainly  cannot  be  proved 
iij  the  case  of  every  single  word,  that  primarily,  in  the 


RELATION    OF    LANGUAGE    TO    TllOL'GIIT.  155 

root  and  heart,  language  is  self-embodied  thought.  Yet 
though  it  is  impossible  at  present  in  the  case  of  every 
single  word  to  verify  the  assumption  upon  which  we 
have  gone,  it  is  not  diliicult  to  do  this  in  the  case  of  that 
portion  of  the  language  in  which  there  is  emphasis  and 
intensity  of  meaning.  The  verb,  by  which  action  and 
sufl'ering  (which  in  the  animal  world  is  but  a  calmer  and 
more  intense  activity)  are  expressed,  is  a  word  often  and 
evidently  suited  to  the  thought.  Those  nouns  which  are 
names  not  of  things  but  of  acts  and  energies,  are  like- 
wise exceedingly  significant  of  the  things  signified.  The 
motions  of  the  mouth,  the  position  of  the  organs,  and 
the  tension  of  the  muscles  of  speech,  in  the  utterance  of 
such  words  as  shock,  smite,  writhe,  slake,  quench,  are 
produced  by  the  force  and  energy  and  character  of  the 
conceptions  which  these  words  communicate,  just  as  the 
prolonged  relaxation  of  the  organs  and  muscles  in  the 
pronunciation  of  soothe,  Ireathe,  dream,  calm,  and  the 
like,  results  naturally  from  the  nature  of  the  thought  of 
which  they  are  the  vocal  embodiment. 

And  this  leads  us  to  notice  that  tliis  view  of  the  origin 
and  nature  of  language  acquires  additional  support  from 
considering  that  the  vocal  sound  is  the  product  of  physi- 
cal organs  which  are  started  into  action  and  directed  in 
llicir  motion  by  the  soul  itself.*  Even  the  tones  of  the 
animal  are  suited  to  the  inward  feeling  by  the  particular 
play  of  muscles  and  organs  of  utterance.  The  feeling 
of  pleasure  could  not,  so  long  as  nature  is  herself,  twist 
these  muscles  and  organs  into  the  emission  of  tiic  sharp 
scream  of  physical  agony,  any  more  than  it  could  light 
up  the  eye  with  the  ghire  and  Ihish  of  rage. 

Now  il'  this  is  1iuc  in  tiie  low  sphere  of  animal  cxist- 

*  Sec  on  tliis  point  WiiUia's  English  Granimtir,  and  Ilcurnc's  Langtofu 
Clironiclc,  Vol.  I.  rrcfuce. 


15G  RELATION    OF    LANGUAGE    TO    THOUGHT. 

encc,  it  is  still  more  true  in  the  sphere  of  intellectual  and 
moral  existcnee.  If  life  is  true  to  itself  in  the  lower,  it 
is  true  to  itself  in  the  higher  realm  of  its  manifestation. 
When  full  of  earnest  thought  and  feeling  the  mind  uses 
the  body  at  will,  and  the  latter  natm-ally  and  spontane- 
ously subserves  the  former.  As  thought  becomes  more 
and  more  earnest,  and  feeling  more  and  more  glowing, 
the  body  bends  and  yields  with  increasing  pliancy,  down 
to  its  minutest  fibres  and  most  delicate  tissues,  to  the 
working  of  the  engaged  mind ;  the  organs  of  speech  be- 
come one  with  the  soul,  and  are  swayed  and  wielded  by 
it.  The  word  is,  as  it  were,  ptit  into  the  mouth,  by  the 
vehement  and  excited  spirit. 

When  the  mind  is  quickened,  out  of  doubt, 
The  organs,  though  defunct  and  dead  before, 
Break  up  their  drowsy  grave  and  newly  move 
AVith  casted  slough  and  fresh  legerity.* 

As  well  might  it  be  said  that  there  is  no  vital  and  na- 
tural connection  between  the  feeling  and  the  blush  in 
which  it  mantles,  or  the  tear  in  which  it  finds  vent,  as 
that  the  word — the  '■'■  ivinged  word'''' — has  only  an  arbi- 
trary and  dead  relation  to  the  thought. 

Again,  it  is  generally  conceded  that  there  is  an  inher- 
ent fitness  of  gesture,  attitude  and  look,  to  the  thought 
or  feeling  conveyed  by  them  ;  but  do  attitude,  gesture, 
and  look,  sustain  a  more  intimate  relation  to  thought 
and  feehng  than  language  does ;  language,  at  once  the 
most  universal  as  well  as  most  particular  in  its  applica- 
tion, the  most  exhaustive  and  perfect,  of  all  the  media 
of  communication  between  mind  and  mind,  between 
heart  and  heart  ?  The  truth  is,  that  all  the  media 
through  which  thought  becomes  sensuous  and  communi- 

*  Henry  IV.  Act  IV.  So.  L 


RELATION  OF  LANGUAGE  TO  THOUGHT.       157 

cable  are  in  greater  or  less  degree,  yet  in  same  degree, 
nomog-eneous  and  con^natural  with  tliought  itself.  In  other 
words  they  all,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  possess  mani- 
fest propriety. 

It  is  to  be  borne  in  mind  here,  that  the  question  is  not 
whether  thought  could  not  have  embodied  itself  in  other 
forms  than  it  has,  whether  other  languages  could  not 
have  arisen,  but  whether  the  existing  forms  possess  ad- 
aptedness  to  the  thought  they  convey.  Life  is  not  com- 
pelled to  manifest  itself  in  one  only  form,  or  in  one  par- 
ticular set  of  forms,  in  any  of  the  kingdoms,  but  it  is 
compelled  to  make  the  form  in  which  it  does  appear, 
vital  like  itself.  The  forms,  for  aught  that  we  know, 
may  be  inlinite  in  number,  in  which  the  invisible  prhici- 
ple  may  become  sensible,  but  the  corpse  is  no  one  of 
them. 

Thought  as  the  substance  of  discourse  is  logical,  ne- 
cessary, and  immutable,  in  its  nature,  while  language  as 
the  form  is  variable.  The  language  of  a  people  is  conti- 
nually undergoing  a  change,  so  that  those  who  speak  it 
in  its  later  periods,  (it  very  often  happens,)  would  be 
unintelligible  to  those  who  spoke  it  in  its  earlier  ages. 
Chaucer  cannot  be  read  by  Englishmen  of  the  present 
day  without  a  glossary.*  Again,  the  languages  of  dif- 
ferent nations  differ  from  each  other.  There  is  great 
variety  in  the  changes  of  the  verb  to  express  the  passive 
form.  The  subject  is  sometimes  inchidcd  in  the  verb, 
sonnilimes  is  prclixed,  and  sometimes  is  suilixed  to  it. 
The  Malay  language  assumes  the  pinral   instead  of  the 

*  Yet  even  in  tliis  case,  as  Wordsworth  truly  remarks,  "  the  affertinij 
parts  arc  almost  always  expressed  in  lanf^tuif^e  pure,  and  universally  iiitel- 
lif,'il)Ie  even  to  this  diiy." — Pr<fai-v  lo  fjijiirdl  /iullails.  The  more  inlrimt 
and  vil'il  the  thoiitrht,  the  nearer  tlie  form  apj)roaehes  the  essence,  the  mora 
universal  docs  it  become. 


158  RELATION    OF    LANGUAGE    TO    THOUGHT. 

pinj^nlar  as  the  basis  of  number,  all  nouns  primarily  de- 
notiniif  the  jiiurai.  Some  use  the  dual  and  some  do  not; 
some  give  gender  and  number  to  adjectives,  and  others 
do  not ;  some  have  the  article  and  some  have  not.  And 
yet  all  these  dilTerent  languages  are  equally  embodiments 
of  thought,  and  of  the  same  thought  substantially.  For 
the  Imman  mind  is  everywhere,  and  at  all  times,  subject 
to  the  invariable  laws  of  its  own  constitution,  and  that 
logical,  immutable,  truth  which  stands  over  against  it  as 
its  correlative  object,  is  developed  in  much  the  same  way 
among  all  nations  in  whom  the  intellect  obtains  a  devel- 
opment. The  vital  principle — logical,  immutable,  truth 
in  the  form  of  human  thought — is  here  seen  embodying 
itself  in  manifold  forms,  with  freedom  and  originality, 
and  with  an  expressive  suitableness  in  every  instance. 

That  a  foreign  language  does  not  seem  expressive  to 
the  stranger  is  no  argument  against  the  fundamental  hy- 
pothesis. It  is  expressive  to  the  native-born,  and  be- 
come so  to  the  stranger  in  proportion  as  he  acquires  (not 
a  mere  mechanical  and  book  knowledge,  but)  a  vital 
and  vernacular  knowledge  of  it.  And  this  expressive- 
ness is  not  the  result  of  custom.  Apart  from  the  in- 
stinctive association  of  a  certain  w^ord  with  a  certain 
conception,  there  is  an  instinctive  sense  of  its  intrinsic 
fitness  to  communicate  the  thought  intended — of  its  ex- 
pressiveness. For  why  should  some  words  be  more  ex- 
pressive than  others,  if  they  all  equally  depend  upon  the 
law  of  association  for  their  significance  ?  And  why  is  a 
certain  portion  of  every  language  more  positive,  empha- 
tic, and  intense,  than  the  remaining  portions  ?  There  is 
in  every  language  a  class  of  words  which  are  its  life  and 
life-blood,  a  class  to  which  the  mind,  in  its  fervor  and 
glow,  instinctively  betakes  itself  in  order  to  free  itself  of 
its  thoughts  in  the  most  cflectivc  and  satisfactory  man- 


RELATION    OF    LANGUAGE    TO    THOUGHT.  159 

ner.  But  this  is  irreconcilable  with  the  hypothesis  that 
all  words  are  but  lifeless  signs,  acquiiing  their  significa- 
tion and  apparent  suitableness  from  use  and  custom,  and 
all  consequently  being  upon  the  same  dead  level  with 
respect  to  expressiveness. 

Still  another  proof  that  the  connection  between  lan- 
guage and  thought  is  organic,  is  found  in  the  fact  that 
the  relation  between  the  two  is  evidently  that  of  action 
and  reaction. 

We  have  seen  that  language  is  the  produce  of  thought 
but  this  is  not  to  be  understood  as  though  language  were 
a  mere  effect,  of  which  thought  is  the  mere  cause.  The 
mere  effect  cannot  react  upon  the  pure  cause.  It  is 
thrown  oft'  and  away  from  its  cause  (as  the  cannon  ball 
is  from  tlie  cannon),  so  that  it  stands  insulated  and  in- 
dependent with  respect  to  its  origin. 

This  is  not  the  case  with  language.  Originated  by 
thought,  and  undergoing  modifications  as  thought  is  de- 
veloped, it,  in  tiu-n,  exerts  a  reflex  influence  upon  its  ori- 
ginating cause.  In  proportion  as  language  is  an  exact 
and  sincere  expression,  does  thought  itself  become  exact 
and  sincere.  The  more  appropriate  and  expressive  the 
language,  the  more  correct  will  be  the  thought,  and  the 
more  expressive  and  powerful  will  be  the  direction  which 
thought  takes. 

But  if  language  were  a  mechanical  invention,  no  such 
reaction  as  this  could  take  place  uj)()m  ihr  inventor. 
AVhiic  connected  with  thought  only  by  an  arbitrary  com- 
pact on  tin-  part  of  those  who  made  use  of  it,  it  would 
be  sf'jmratrd  from  thought  by  origin  and  by  nature.  Not 
bring  a  living  and  organic,  product,  it  could  sustain  to 
thought  only  the  external  and  lifeless  relation  of  cause 
and  ellecl,  and  consc(|uently  would  remain  one  and  the 


lUO  RELATION    OF    LANGUAGF.    TO    THOUGHT. 

same  amid  all  the  life,  motion,  and  modification,  which 
llu>  immaterial  i)rinciple  might  undergo. 

Of  eonrse  if  such  were  the  relation  between  the  two, 
it  would  be  impossible  to  account  for  all  that  uncon- 
scious but  real  change  ever  going  on  in  a  sjioken  lan- 
guage, which  we  call  g-roivl/i  and  progress.  Language 
upon  such  an  hypothesis  would  remain  stationary  in 
substance,  and  at  best  could  be  altered  only  by  aggrega- 
tion from  without.  New  words  might  be  invented  and 
added  to  the  number  already  in  existence,  but  no  change 
could  occur  in  the  spirit  of  the  language,  if  it  may  be 
allowed  to  speak  of  sjnrit  in  such  a  connection. 

Furthermore,  if  there  is  no  vital  relation  between  lan- 
guage and  thought,  it  would  be  absurd  to  speak  of  the 
beneficial  influence  upon  mental  development  (which  is 
but  the  development  of  thought)  of  the  study  of  philo- 
logy. If  in  strict  literality  the  relation  of  language  to 
thought  is  that  of  the  invention  to  the  mind  of  the  in- 
ventor, then  the  study  of  this  outward,  and  in  itself  life- 
less instrument,  would  be  of  no  worth  in  developing  an 
essence  so  intensely  vital,  so  full  of  motion,  and  with 
such  an  irrepressible  tendency  to  development,  as  the 
:iuman  mind. 

It  is  however  a  truth  and  a  fact  that  the  study  of  a 
well  organized  language  is  one  of  the  very  best  means 
of  mental  education.  It  brings  the  mind  of  the  student 
into  communication  with  the  whole  mind  of  a  nation, 
and  infuses  into  his  culture  its  good  and  bad  elements 
— tlie  whole  genius  and  spirit  of  the  people  of  whose 
mind  it  is  the  evolution.  In  no  way  can  the  mind  of 
the  individual  be  made  to  feel  the  power  and  influence 
of  the  mind  of  the  race,  and  thereby  receive  the  greatest 
possible  enlargement  and  liberalizing,  so  well  as  by  the 


RELATION  OF  LANGUAGE  TO  THOUGHT.       IGl 

philosophic  study  of  language  A  rational  method  of 
education  makes  use  of  this  study  as  an  indispensable 
discipline,  and  selects  for  this  purpose  two  languages 
distinguished  for  the  intimate  relation  which  they  svis- 
tain  to  the  particular  forms  of  thought  they  respectively 
express.  For  the  Greek  language  is  so  fused  and  one 
with  Grecian  thought,  that  it  is  living  to  this  day,  and 
has  been  the  soiuce  of  life  to  literature  ever  since  its 
revival  in  the  fifteenth  century ;  and  the  rigid  but  majes- 
tic Latin  is  the  exact  embodiment  of  the  organizing  and 
imperial  ideas  of  Rome. 

These  languages  exhibit  the  changes  of  thought  in  thes 
Greek  and  Roman  mind.  They  take  their  form  and 
derive  their  spirit  from  the  peculiarities  of  these  nations. 
Hence  the  strong  and  original  influence  which  they  ex- 
ert upon  the  modern  mind.  If  these  languages  really 
contained  no  tincture  of  the  intellect  that  made  them 
and  made  use  of  them,  if  they  communicated  none  of 
the  spirit  of  antiquity,  tiiey  would  indeed  be  "  dead  "  lan- 
guages for  all  ])m-poses  of  mental  enlivening  and  devel- 
opment. 

But  it  is  not  so.  The  Greek  and  Roman  mind  with 
all  that  passed  through  it,  whether  it  were  tliought  or 
feeling,  whether  it  were  individual  or  national,  instead 
of  remaining  in  the  sphere  of  consciousness  merely,  and 
thus  being  kept  from  the  ken  of  all  after  ages,  projected 
itself,  as  it  were,  into  these  fine  languages,  into  these 
noble  forms,  and  not  only  became  a  Kri'jfj.a  e?  del  for  man- 
kind, but  also  a  possession  with  whose  characteristics 
the  pf)ssess()r  is  in  symj^alhy,  and  from  which  he  derives 
intellectual  nourishment  and  strength. 

A  further  jjroof  that  language  has  a  living  connection 
with  thought,  is  found  in  the  fact  that  feeling  and  passion 
suggest  language. 


1G2  RELATION    OF    LANGUAGE    TO    THOUGHT. 

Feeling  and  passion  are  the  most  vital  of  all  the  acti 
vities  of  the  human  soul,  flowing  as  they  do  from  the 
heart,  and  that  which  is  prompted  by  them  may  safely 
be  aifirmed  to  have  life.  That  words  the  most  expres- 
sive and  powerful  fly  from  the  lips  of  the  impassioned 
thinker  is  notorious.  The  man  who  is  naturally  of  few 
words,  becomes  both  fluent  and  appropriate  in  the  use 
of  language,  when  his  mind  glows  with  his  subject  and 
feeling  is  awakened. 

"But  the  use  of  language  is  the  same  in  kind  and  cha- 
racter with  its  origin.  The  processes  through  which 
language  passes  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  its 
existence  are  all  of  the  same  nature.  As  in  the  wide 
sphere  of  the  universe,  preservation  is  a  constant  crea- 
tion, and  the  things  that  are,  are  sustained  and  perpe- 
tuated on  principles  in  accordance  with  the  character 
impressed  upon  them  by  the  creative  fiat,  so  in  all  the 
narrower  spheres  of  the  finite,  the  use  and  development 
are  coincident  and  harmonious  with  the  origin  and  na- 
ture. We  may  therefore  argue  back  from  the  use  and 
development  to  the  origin  and  nature ;  and  when  we  find 
that  in  all  ])eriods  of  its  history  human  language  is  sug- 
gested, and  that  too  in  its  most  expressive  form,  by  feel- 
ing and  passion,  we  may  infer  that  these  had  to  do  in 
its  origin,  and  have  left  something  of  themselves  in  its 
nature.  For  how  could  there  be  a  point  and  surface  of 
communication  between  ^vords  and  feeling,  so  that  the 
latter  should  start  out  the  former  in  all  the  freshness  of  a 
new  creation,  if  there  were  no  interior  connection  be- 
tween them.  For  language  as  it  falls  from  the  lips  of 
passion  is  tremulous  with  life — with  the  life  of  the  soul 
—  and  imparts  the  life  of  the  soul  to  all  who  hear  it. 

If,  then,  in  the  actual  every-day  use  of  language,  we 
find  it  to  be  suggested  by  passion,  aad  to  be  undergoing 


RELATION  OF  LANGUAGE  TO  THOUGHT.      163 

changes  both  in  form  and  signification,  without  the 
intervention  of  a  formal  compact  on  the  part  of  men,  it  is 
just  to  infer  that  no  such  compact  called  it  into  existence. 
If,  upon  watching  the  progress  and  growth  of  a  language, 
we  find  it  in  continual  flux  and  reflux,  and  detect  every- 
where in  it,  change  and  motion,  without  any  consciously 
directed  effort  to  this  end  on  the  part  of  those  who  speak 
it,  it  is  safe  to  infer  that  the  same  unconscious  spontane- 
ousness  characterized  it  in  its  beginning.  Moreover,  if 
in  every-day  life  we  unconsciously,  yet  really,  use 
language  not  as  a  lifeless  sign  of  our  thought,  but  believe 
that  in  employing  it  we  are  really  expressing  our  mind, 
and  furthermore,  if  we  never  in  any  way  agreed  to  use 
the  tongue  which  we  drank  in  with  our  mother's  milk, 
but  were  born  into  it  and  grew  up  into  its  use,  even  as 
we  were  born  into  and  grew  up  under  the  intellectual  and 
moral  constitution  imposed  upon  human  nature  by  its 
Creator,  we  may  safely  conclude  that  language,  too,  is  a 
provision  on  the  part  of  the  author  of  our  being,  and 
consequently  is  organic  and  alive. 

Indeed,  necessity  of  speech,  like  necessity  of  religion 
and  government  and  social  existence,  is  laid  upon  man 
by  his  constitution,  and  as  in  these  latter  instances  what- 
ever secondary  arrangements  may  be  made  by  circum- 
stances, the  primary  basis  and  central  form  is  fixed  in 
human  nature,  so  in  the  case  of  language,  wiiatever  may 
be  the  secondary  modifications  growing  out  of  national 
dillerences  and  pecuharitics  of  vocal  organs,  tiie  deep 
ground  and  source  of  language  is  the  human  constitution 
itself. 

Frederick  Schlegel,  after  (pioling  ychiller's  lines: 

Thy  knowlcdpe,  thou  sharest  with  superior  spirits; 
Art,  oh  mun  !  thou  hast  ulouc, 


IGl      RELATION  OF  LANGUAGE  TO  THOUGHT. 

calls  lanrjnagc  "  Ihe  general,  all-embracing  art  of  man." 
This  is  truth.  For  language  is  embodiment — the  em- 
bodiment not  indeed  of  one  particular  idea  in  a  material 
form,  but  of  thought  at  large,  in  an  immaterial  yet  sensi- 
ble form.  And  the  fact  that  the  material  iised  is  sound 
—  the  most  ethereal  of  media  —  imparts  to  this  "all 
embracing  art"  a  spirituality  of  character  that  raises  it 
above  many  of  the  fine  arts,  strictly  so  called.  It  is  an 
embodiment  of  the  spiritual,  yet  not  in  the  coarse  ele- 
ments of  matter.  When  the  spiritual  passes  from  the 
intelligible  to  the  sensible  world  by  means  of  art,  there  is 
a  coming  down  from  the  pure  ether  and  element  of 
incorporeal  beauty  into  the  lower  sphere  of  the  defined 
and  sensuous.  The  pure  abstract  idea  necessarily  loses 
something  of  its  purity  and  abstractedness  by  becoming 
embodied.  By  coming  into  appearance  for  the  sense  it 
ceases  to  be  in  its  ineftable,  original,  highest  state  for  the 
reason  —  for  the  pure  intelligence.  Art,  therefore,  is 
degradation  —  a  stooping  to  the  Hmitations  and  imper- 
fections of  the  material  world  of  sense,  and  the  feeling 
awakened  by  the  form,  however  full  it  may  be  of  the  idea, 
is  not  equal  in  purity,  depth,  and  elevation,  to  the  direct 
beholding  of  the  idea  itself  in  spirit  and  in  truth.* 

We  may,  therefore,  add  to  the  assertion  of  Schlegel, 
and  say,  that  language  is  also  the  highest  art  of  man. — 
With  the  exceptions  of  poetry  and  oratory,  all  the  fine 
arts  are  hampered  in  the  full,  free,  expression  of  the  idea 
by  the  uncomplying  material.     Poetry  and  oratory,  in 

*  It  is  interesting  in  this  connection  to  notice  that  the  Puritan,  though 
f;enerally  charged  witli  a  barbarian  ignorance  of  the  worth  of  art,  neverthe- 
less in  practice  took  the  only  strictly  philosophic  view  of  it.  That  stripping 
flaying  hatred  of  form,  per  sc,  which  he  manifested,  grew  out  of  a  (practi- 
cally) intensely  philosophic  mind  which  clearly  saw  the  true  relation  of  the 
form  to  the  idea  —  of  the  sensible  to  the  spiritual. 


RELATION    OF    LANGUAGE    TO     THOUGHT.  165 

common  with  language,  by  employing  the  most  ethereal 
of  media,  approach  as  near  as  is  possible  for  embodiments 
to  the  natui-e  of  that  which  they  embody;  but  the  latter 
is  infinitely  superior  to  the  two  former,  by  virtue  of  its 
infinitely  greater  range,  and  power  of  exhaustive  expres- 
sion. Poetry  and  eloquence  are  confined  to  the  particu- 
lar and  individual,  while  language  seeks  to  embody 
thought  in  all  its  relations  and  transitions,  and  feeling  in 
all  its  manifoldness  and  depth.  The  sphere  in  which  it 
moves,  and  of  which  it  seeks  to  give  an  outward  manifes- 
tation is  the  whole  human  consciousness,  from  its  rise  in 
the  individual,  on  through  all  its  modifications  in  the 
race.  It  seeks  to  give  expression  to  an  inward  experi- 
ence, that  is  "  co-infinite  with  human  life  itself." 

Viewed  in  this  aspect,  human  language  ceases  to  be 
the  insignificant  and  uninteresting  phenomenon  it  is  so 
often  represented  to  be,  and  appears  in  all  its  real  mean- 
ing and  mystery.  It  is  an  organization,  as  wonderful  as 
any  in  the  realm  of  creation,  built  up  by  a  necessary  ten- 
dency of  human  nature  seeking  to  provide  for  its  wants, 
and  constructed  too,  upon  the  principles  of  that  universal 
nature,  which  Sir  Thomas  Brown  truly  affirms  to  be 
"  the  art  of  God."  *  Contemplate,  for  a  moment,  the 
Greek  language  as  the  product  of  this  tendency,  and 
necessity,  to  express  his  thought  imposed  upon  man  by 
creation.  This  wonderful  structure  could  not  have  been 
put  together  by  the  cunning  contrivance,  and  adopted  by 
the  formal  consent,  of  the  nation,  and  it  certainly  was  not 
preserved  and  improved  in  this  manner.  Its  pliancy  and 
copiousness  and   precision    and    vitality    and    liarnKHiy, 

♦  Die  philosophischc  Bildiinfj  dcr  Spraclien,  die  vorzuglicli  noch  iiii  dci: 
nrspriinj^lichcn  sichtbar  wird,  ist  cin  wiilirlmftcs  durch  den  Mcchnnismiis 
dcs  mcnschliclicn  Gcistcs  gcwirktcs  Wundcr. —  Scliclling's  voir  Iili.  u.  s 
w.  ^  3. 


166  RELATION    OF    LANGUAGE    TO     THOUGHT. 

\\iiercby  it  is  capable  of  expressing  all  forms  of  thought, 
from  the  simplicity  of  Herodotus  to  the  depth  of  Plato, 
are  qualities  which  the  unaided  and  mechanizing  under- 
standing of  man  could  not  have  produced.  They  grew 
spontaneously,  and  gradually,  out  of  the  fundamental 
characteristics  of  the  Grecian  mind,  and  are  the  natural 
and  pure  expression  of  Grecian  thought.  Contemplate, 
again,  our  own  mother  tongue  as  the  product  of  this 
same  foimdation  for  speech  laid  in  human  nature  by  its 
constitution.  Its  native  strength  and  energy  and  vivid- 
ness, and  its  acquired  copiousness  and  harmony,  as 
exhibited  in  the  simple  artlessness  of  Chaucer,  and  "  the 
stately  and  regal  argument"  of  Milton,  are  what  might 
be  expected  to  characterize  the  Latinized  Saxon. 

A  creative  power,  deeper  and  more  truly  artistic  than 
the  inventive  understanding,  produced  these  languages. 
It  was  that  plastic  power,  by  which  man  creates  form  for 
the  formless,  and  which,  whether  it  show  itself  univer- 
sally in  the  production  of  a  living  language,  or  particu- 
larly in  the  works  of  the  poet  or  painter,  is  the  crowning 
power  of  humanity.  In  view  of  the  wonderful  harmo- 
nies and  symmetrical  gradations  of  these  languages,  may 
we  not  apply  the  language  of  Wordsworth : 

Point  not  these  mysteries  to  an  art 

Lodged  above  the  starry  pole, 

Pure  moduli tlions  flowing  from  the  heart 

Of  Divine  love,  where  wisdom,  beauty,  truth, 

With  order  dwell,  in  endless  youth.  * 

We  should  not,  however,  have  a  complete  view  of  the 
relation  of  language  to  thought,  if  we  failed  to  notice 
that  in  its  best  estate  it  is  an  imperfect  expression. — 
Philosophy  ever  labors  under  the  difficulty  of  finding 

*  Power  of  Sound. 


RELATION    OF    LANGUAGE    TO     THOUGHT.  167 

terms  by  which  to  communicate  its  subtle  and  profound 
discoveries,  and  there  are  feelings  that  are  absolutely 
unutterable.  Especially  is  this  true  of  religious  thought 
and  feeling.  There  is  a  limit  within  this  profound 
domain  beyond  which  human  speech  cannot  go,  and  the 
hushed  and  breathless  spirit  must  remain  absorbed  in  the 
awful  intuition.  Here,  as  throughovit  the  whole  world 
of  life,  the  principle  obtains  but  an  imperfect  embodiment. 
There  is  ever  something  more  perfect  and  more  glorious 
beyond  what  appears.  The  intelligible  world  cannot  be 
entirely  exhausted,  and  therefore  it  is  the  never-failing 
source  of  substantial  principle  and  creative  life.  In  the 
case  before  us,  truth  is  entirely  exhausted  by  no  language 
whatever.  There  are  depths  not  yet  penetrated  by  con- 
sciousness, and  who  will  say  that  even  the  consciousness 
of  such  a  thinker  as  Plato  can  have  had  a  complete 
expression,  even  through  such  a  wonderful  medium  as 
the  Greek  tongue  ?  The  human  mind  is  connected  with 
the  Divine  mind,  and  thereby  with  the  whole  abyss  of 
truth  ;  and  hence  the  impossibility  of  completely  sounding 
even  the  human  mind,  or  of  giving  complete  utterance  to 
it ;  and  hence  the  possibility  and  the  basis  of  an  unend- 
ing development  for  the  mind  and  an  unending  growth 
for  language. 

We  are  aware  that  the  charge  of  obscurity  may  be 
brought  against  the  theory  here  presented,  by  an  advo- 
cate of  the  other  theory  of  the  origin  and  nature  of 
language.  Wc  have  no  disposition  to  deny  the  truth  of 
the  charge,  only  adding  that  the  obscurity,  so  far  as  it 
pertains  to  the;  theory  (in  distinction  from  the  pr(;senta- 
tion  of  the  tlieory,  for  wliicii  tin;  indivichial  is  resjmnsibh-,) 
is  such  as  grows  out  of  the  very  nature  and  depth  and 
absohite  truth  of  the  tlief)ry  itself.  We  have  gone  upon 
the    supposition    that    hunjan    language,  as    a    form,    is 


108      RELATION  OF  LANGUAGE  TO  THOUGHT. 

iu>iili('r  hollow  nor  lilVlo.ss  —  thai  it.  has  a  living  i)rincij)le, 
and  that  ihis  princ-ij)lc  is  thought.  Now  life  is  and  must 
be  mysterious ;  and  at  no  point  more  so  than  when  it 
begins  to  organize  itself  into  a  body.  Furthermore,  the 
sjHnitaneous,  and  to  a  great  extent,  unconscious  processes 
of  life,  are  and  must  be  mysterious.  The  method  of 
genius  —  one  of  the  highest  forms  of  life  —  in  the  pro- 
duction of  a  Hamlet,  or  Paradise  Lost,  or  the  Trans- 
figuration, has  not  yet  been  explained,  and  the  method 
of  human  nature,  by  which  it  constructs  for  itself  its 
wonderful  medium  of  communication  —  by  which  it 
externalizes  the  whole  inner  world  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing—  cannot  be  rendered  plain  like  the  working  of  a 
well  poised  and  smoothly  running  machine  throwing  off 
its  manufactures. 

Simply  asking  then  of  him  who  would  render  all  things 
clear  by  rendering  all  things  shallow,  hij  ivhorn,  when, 
where,  and  hoiv,  the  Greek  language,  for  example,  was 
invented,  and  by  what  historical  compact  it  came  to  be 
the  language  of  the  nation,  we  would  turn  away  to  that 
nobler,  more  exciting,  and  more  rational  theory,  which 
regards  language  to  be  "  a  necessary  and  organic  product 
of  human  nature,  appearing  contemporaneously  and 
parallel  with  the  activity  of  thought."  This  theory  of 
the  origin  of  language  throws  light  ovei  all  departments 
of  the  great  subject  of  philology,  finds  its  gradual  and 
unceasing  verification  as  philological  science  advances 
under  a  spur  and  impulse  derived  from  this  very  theory, 
and  ends  in  that  philosophical  insight  into  language, 
which,  after  all,  is  but  the  clear  and  full  intuition  of  its 
mystery  —  of  its  life. 

Having  thus  specified  the  general  relation  of  language 
to  thought,  we  naturally  turn  to  the  uses  and  applications 
of  the  theory  itself.     Its  truth,  value,  and  fruitfulness,  are 


REI-ATIOX    OF    STYLE    TO     THOUGHT.  109 

nowhere  more  apparent  than  in  the  department  of  Rhe- 
toric and  Criticism.  For  this  department  takes  special 
cognizance  of  the  more  Hving  and  animated  forms  of 
speech  —  of  the  glow  of  the  poet,  and  the  fire  of  the 
orator.  It  also  investigates  all  those  peculiarities  of  con- 
struction, and  form,  in  human  composition  that  spring  out 
of  individual  characteristics.  It  is,  therefore,  natural  to 
suppose  that  a  theory  of  language  which  recognizes  a 
power  in  human  thought  to  organize  and  vivify  and 
modify  the  forms  in  which  it  appears,  will  afford  the  best 
light  in  which  to  examine  those  forms ;  just  as  it  is 
natural  to  supj)ose  that  the  commonly  received  theory 
of  physical  life,  will  furnish  a  better  light  in  which  to 
examine  vegetable  and  animal  productions,  than  a  theory 
like  tiiat  of  Descartes,  e.  g.  which  maintains  that  the 
forms  and  functions  in  the  animal  kingdom  are  the 
result  of  a  mechanical  principle.  Life  itself  is  the  best 
light  in  which  to  contemplate  living  things. 

We  propose  therefore  in  the  remainder  of  this  essay  to 
follow  the  same  general  method  already  pursued,  and 
examine  the  nature  of  style,  by  pointing  out  its  relation 
to  thought. 

Style  is  the  particular  manner  in  which  thought  flows 
out,  in  the  case  of  the  individual  mind,  and  upon  a  par- 
ticular subject.  When,  therefore,  it  has,  as  it  always 
j^honld  have,  a  free  and  spontaneous  origin,  it  partakes 
of  The  peculiarity  both  of  the  individual  and  of  the  topic 
upon  which  he  thinks.  A  genuine  style,  therefore,  is  the 
free  and  pure  expression  of  the  individuality  of  the 
thinker  and  the  speciality  of  the  subject  of  lliought. — 
Uniformity  of  style  is  conscfiuently  found  in  tlic  ])r()dnc- 
lions  of  tlie  same  general  cast  of  mind,  a|)pli<(l  to  the 
same  general  class  of  subjects,  so  that  there  is  no  dis- 
^.infjuisliahle  period  in  the  history  of  a  nation's  literature, 


170 


nr.i.ATioN   oi'  sTvi,!-;    ro  thought. 


but  what  exhibits  a  style  of  its  own.  The  spirit  of  the 
age  appears  in  the  general  style  of  its  literary  composi- 
tion, and  the  spirit  of  the  individual  —  the  tone  of  his 
mind  —  nowhere  comes  out  more  clearly  than  in  his 
manner  of  handling  a  subject.  The  grave,  lofty,  and 
calm,  style  of  the  Elizabethan  age  is  an  exact  represcnta« 
tion  of  the  spirit  of  its  thinking  men.  The  intellectual 
temperament  of  the  age  of  Queen  Anne  flows  out  in  the 
clear,  but  dilTase  and  nerveless,  style  of  the  essayists. 

From  this  it  is  easy  to  see  that  style,  like  language, 
has  a  spontaneous  and  natural  origin,  and  a  living  con- 
nection with  thought.  It  is  not  a  manner  of  composing, 
arbitrarily  or  even  designedly  chosen,  but  rises  of  its  own 
accord,  and  in  its  own  way,  in  the  general  process  of 
mental  development.  The  more  unconscious  its  origin, 
and  the  more  strongly  it  partakes  of  the  individuality  of 
the  mind,  the  more  genuine  is  style.  Only  let  it  be  care- 
fully observed  in  this  connection,  that  a  pure  and  sincere 
expression  of  the  individual  peculiarity  is  intended.  Af- 
fectation of  originality  and  studied  effort  after  peculiarity 
produce  mannerism,  in  distinction  from  that  manner  of 
pure  nature,  which  alone  merits  the  name  of  style. 

If  this  be  true,  it  is  evident  that  the  union  of  all  styles, 
or  of  a  portion  of  them,  would  not  constitute  a  perfect 
style.  On  the  contrary,  the  excellence  of  style  consists 
in  its  having  a  bold  and  determined  character  of  its 
own  —  in  its  bearing  the  genuine  image  and  superscrip- 
tion of  an  individual  mind  at  work  upon  a  particular 
subject.  In  a  union  of  many  difl'erent  styles,  there  would 
be  nothing  simple,  bold,  and  individual.  The  union 
would  be  a  mixture,  rather  than  a  union,  in  which  each 
ingredient  would  be  neutralized  by  all,  and  all  by  each, 
leaving  a  residuum  characterless,  spiritless,  and  lifeless. 

Style,  in  proportion  as  it  is  genuine  and  excellent,  is 


RELATION    OF    STYLE    TO    THOUGHT.  171 

eincere  and  artless.  It  is  the  free  and  unconscious  ema- 
nation of  the  individual  nature.  It  alters  as  the  individ- 
ual alters.  In  early  life  it  is  ardent  and  adorned;  in 
mature  life  it  is  calm  and  grave.  In  youth  it  is  fhicihed 
with  fancy  and  feeling ;  in  manhood  it  is  sobered  by  rea- 
son and  reflection.  But  in  both  periods  it  is  the  genu- 
ine expression  of  the  man.  The  gay  manner  of  L' Alle- 
gro and  Comus  is  as  truly  natural  and  spontaneous,  as 
the  grave  and  stately  style  of  Paradise  Regained  and 
Samson  Agonistes.  The  individuality  of  a  man  like  Mil- 
ton passes  through  great  varieties  of  culture  and  of  mood, 
and  there  is  seen  a  corresponding  variety  in  tlie  ways  in 
which  it  communicates  itself;  yet  through  this  variety 
there  runs  the  unity  of  nature ;  each  sort  of  style  is  the 
sincere  and  pure  manner  of  the  same  individual  taken  in 
a  particular  stage  of  his  development. 

No  one  style,  therefore,  can  be  said  to  be  the  best  of 
all  absolutely,  but  only  relatively.  That  is  the  best  style 
relatively  to  the  individual,  in  which  his  particular  cast 
of  thought  best  utters  itself,  and  in  which  the  peculiarity 
of  the  individual  has  the  fullest  and  freest  play.  That 
may  be  called  a  good  style  generally,  in  which  every 
word  tells  —  in  which  the  language  is  full  of  Ihought, 
and  alive  with  thought,  and  so  fresh  and  vigorous  as  to 
seem  to  have  been  just  created  —  while  at  tiie  same  time 
the  characteristics  of  the  mind  that  is  pouring  out  in  this 
particular  maimer,  are  all  in  every  part,  as  the  construct- 
ing and  vivifying  princij^le. 

The  trtith  of  this  view  of  style  is  both  confinucd  and 
illustiated  by  coiisidcring  the  unify  iu  variiUy  exhibiicd 
by  the;  liuui;iii  mind  itself.  The  uiiiid  of  nniii  is  one  ;uid 
the  same  in  its  conslilution  and  necessary  laws,  so  that 
the  human  race  may  hv.  said  to  be  possessed  of  one  uni- 
/ersal  intelligence.      In  the  language  of  one  of  llie  most 


172  RELATION    OF    STYI.K    TO    THOUGHT. 

elegant  and  philosophic  of  English  critics,*  "  It  is  no  un- 
pleasing  speculation  to  see  how  the  same  reason^  has  at 
all  times  prevailed:  how  there  is  one  tnilh,  liice  one  sun, 
that  has  enlightened  human  intelligence  through  every 
age,  and  saved  it  from  the  darkness  of  sophistry  and 
error."  Upon  this  sameness  of  intelligence  rest  all  abso- 
lute statements,  and  all  universal  appeals.  Over  against 
this  universal  human  mind,  as  its  corresponding  object 
and  counterpart,  stands  truth,  universal  in  its  nature  and 
one  and  the  same  in  its  essence. 

l>at  besides  this  unity  of  the  universal,  there  is  the 
variety  of  the  individual,  mind.  Truth,  consequently, 
coming  into  consciousness  in  the  form  of  thought  in  an 
individual  mind,  undergoes  modifications.  It  is  now 
contemplated  not  as  universal  and  abstract,  but  as  con- 
crete and  in  its  practical  relations.  It  is,  moreovei ,  seen, 
not  as  an  unity,  but  in  its  parts,  and  one  side  at  a  time. 
Philosoj)hical  truth  in  Plato  diflers  from  philosophical 
truth  in  Aristotle,  by  a  very  marked  modification.  Poet- 
ical truth  is  one  thing  in  Homer  and  another  in  Virgil. 
Religious  truth  assumes  a  strikingly  difterent  form  in 
Paul  and  Luther,  from  that  which  it  wears  in  John  and 
Melanchthon.  And  yet  poetry,  piiilosophy,  and  religion, 
have  each  their  universal  principles  —  their  one  abstract 
nature.  Each,  however,  appears  in  the  form  imposed 
upon  it  by  the  individual  mind  ;  each  wears  that  tinge 
of  the  mind  through  which  it  has  passed,  which  is  de- 
nominated style. 

No  man  has  yet  appeared  whose  individuahty  was  so 
comprehensive  and  universal,  and  who  was  such  a  mas- 
ter of  form,  that  he  exhausted  the  whole  material  of 
poetry,  or  philosophy,  or  religion,  and  exhibited  it  in  a  style 

*  Harris.     Preface  to  Ilcrmcs. 


RELATION    OF    STYLE    TO    THOUGHT.  173 

and  form  absolutely  universal  and  final.  Enough  is  ever 
left  of  truth,  even  after  the  most  comprehensive  presenta- 
tion, for  another  individuality  to  show  it  in  still  a  new 
and  original  form.  For  there  is  no  limit  to  the  manner 
of  contemplating  infinite  and  universal  truth.  Provided 
only  there  be  a  pecuharity  —  a  particular  type  of  the  hu- 
man mind  —  there  will  be  a  peculiarity  of  intuition,  and 
consequently  of  exhibition. 

The  most  comprehensive  and  universal  individual 
mind  was  that  of  Shakspeare,  and  hence  his  productions 
have  less  of  style,  of  peculiar  manner,  than  all  other  lite- 
rary productions.  Who  can  describe  the  style  of  Shak- 
speare ?  Who  is  aware  of  his  style  ?  The  style  of  Mil- 
ton is  apparent  in  every  line,  for  he  was  one  of  the  most 
siii-E^eticric  of  men.  But  the  form  which  truth  takes  in 
Shakspeare,  is  as  comprehensive  and  universal  as  the 
drama,  as  all  mankind.  This  is  owing  to  that  Protean 
power  by  which,  for  the  purposes  of  dramatic  art,  he  con- 
verts himself  into  other  men,  takes  their  consciousness, 
and  thereby  temporarily  loses  his  own  limited  individual- 
ity. But  that  Shakspeare  was  an  individual,  that  a  pecu- 
liar type  of  humanity  formed  the  basis  of  his  personal 
being,  suid  that  he  had  a  style  of  thought  of  his  own,  it 
would  be  absurd  to  doubt.  And  had  he  attempted  other 
species  of  composition  than  the  drama,  (which  by  its 
very  nature  requires  that  the  individuality  of  the  author 
be  sunk  and  lost  entirely  in  the  various  characters,)  had 
betaken,  like  Milton,  a  particular  theme  as  the  "  great 
argunu'iit"  for  his  poetic  power,  doubtless  the  man,  tlic 
indivuliia/,  would  have  come  into  sight.* 


♦  In  rf)rrol)i)riitiori  of  flii><,  it  may  1)C  rctiinrkcd  that  wc  liavo  fnr  Tiioro 
gptisf  of  the  imiiridiiiilili/  of  .Sliukspcnrc,  while  i-crusing  Ills  puciits  unj 
BoniictH,  than  while  studying  hu  drunias. 


174 


RELATION  OF  STYLE  TO  THOUGHT. 


Style  of  expression  thus  springing  out  of  the  style  of 
thought,  is  therefore  immediately  connected  with  the 
structure  and  character  of  the  individual  mind.  It  con- 
sequently has  an  unconscious  origin.  On  the  basis  laid 
in  the  individual's  characteristics,  and  by  and  through  the 
individuars  mental  growth,  his  manner  of  expression  is 
formed.  There  is  a  certain  style  which  fits  the  individ- 
ual —  which,  and  no  other,  is  his  style.  It  is  that  man- 
ner of  presenting  thought,  into  which  he  naturally  falls, 
when  his  mind  is  deeply  absorbed  in  a  subject,  and  when 
he  gives  no  heed  to  the  form  into  which  his  thought  is 


ruimmg. 


It  is  not  to  be  inferred  from  this,  that  style  has  no  con- 
nection with  culture.  It  has  a  most  immediate  and  vital 
connection  with  the  individual's  education.  Not  only  all 
that  he  is  by  nature,  but  all  that  he  becomes  by  culture, 
tends  to  form  his  style  of  thought  and  expression ;  but, 
be  it  observed,  unconsciously  to  him.  For  an  incessant 
aim,  a  conscious,  anxious  effort  to  form  a  given  style,  is 
the  destruction  of  style.  Under  such  an  inspection  and 
oversight.  Nature  cannot  work,  even  if  the  mind  under 
such  circumstances,  could  absorb  itself  in  the  theme  of 
reflection.  There  must  be  no  consciousness  during  the 
time  and  process  of  composing,  but  of  the  subject.  The 
subject  being  all  in  all,  for  the  thinker,  the  form  into 
which  his  thought  runs,  with  all  the  modification  and 
coloring  which  it  really,  though  unconsciously  to  him, 
receives  from  his  individualism,  and  from  the  whole  past 
of  his  education,  is  his  style  —  his  genuine  and  true  man- 
ner. 

The  point  to  be  observed  here  is,  that  style  is  the  con- 
sequent^ so  far  as  it  is  related  to  culture.  For,  the  culture 
itself  takes  its  direction  and  character  from  the  origina' 
tendeney  of  the  individual,  (for  every  one  in  the  end  ob- 


RELATION  OF  STYLE  TO  THOUGHT.         175 

fains  a  mental  development  coincident  with  his  mental 
bias,)  and  style  is  but  the  unconscious  manifestation  of 
this  cultm-e.  Style  —  genuine  style  —  can  never  be  the 
conscious  antecedent  of  culture.  It  cannot  be  first 
selected,  and  then  the  whole  individuality  of  the  mind, 
and  the  whole  course  of  education,  be  forced  to  contri- 
bute to  its  realization.  One  cannot  antecedently  choose 
the  style  of  Burke,  e.  g.  as  that  which  he  would  have  for 
his  own,  and  then  deliberately  realize  his  choice.  It  is 
true  that  a  mind  similar  to  that  of  Burke  in  its  structm*e, 
and  in  sympathy  with  him  through  a  similarly  fruitful 
and  opulent  culture,  would  spontaneously  form  its  style 
upon,  and  with,  his.  But  the  process,  in  this  case,  would 
not  be  a  deliberate  and  conscious  imitation,  but  an  un- 
conscious and  genial  reproduction.  It  would  be  the  con- 
se(}uent  of  nature  and  of  culture,  and  not  the  antecedent. 
The  individual  would  not  distinctly  know  that  his  was 
the  style  of  Burke,  until  it  became  apparent  to  others 
that  it  actually  was. 

Here,  too,  as  in  every  sphere  in  which  the  living  soul 
of  man  works,  do  we  find  the  genuine  and  beautiful  pro- 
duct originating  freely,  spontaneously,  and  unconscious- 
ly. Freely,  for  it  might  have  been  a  false  and  deformed 
product,  yet  spontaneously  and  unconsciously,  for  it  can- 
not be  the  subject  of  rellection  and  matter  of  distinct 
knowledge  until  after  it  has  come  into  existence.  By 
the  thronging  stress  and  tendency  of  the  human  soul, 
which  is  so  created  as  to  contain  vvithin  itself  the  princi- 
ple and  direction  of  its  own  movement,  is  the  product 
originated,  which  tiien,  and  not  till  then,  is  the  possible 
and  Ifgitirriatc  subject  of  consciousness,  analysis,  and 
critieisMi.  Tiie  style  of  a  thinking  mind  is  no  exception 
to  this  universal  law.  It  is  formed,  when  formed  accord- 
ing to  nature  —  when  lorined  as  it  was  destined  to  be. 


170  lUn.ATlON    OF    STYLK    TO     IJIOIIMIT. 

by  that  creative  idt>a  which  prescribes  Ihe  whole  never- 
ending  development  of  the  creatm-e  —  it  i.s  i'ormed  out 
of  what  is  laid  in  the  individual  constitution,  and  through 
what  is  brought  in  by  the  individual  culture,  uncon- 
sciously to  tiie  subject  of  the  process,  and  yet  freely,  so 
far  as  iiis  nature  and  constitution  are  concerned. 

If  the  view  that  has  been  taken  of  style,  be  correct,  it 
is  evident,  that  in  the  formation  of  style,  no  attempt 
should  be  made  to  change  the  fundamental  character 
imposed  upon  it  by  the  individual  constitution.  The 
type  is  fLxed  by  nature,  and  no  one  should  strive,  by  forc- 
ing nature,  to  obtain  a  manner  essentially  alien  and  foreign 
to  him.  The  sort  of  style  which  belongs  to  the  individual 
by  his  intellectual  constitution  is  to  be  taken  as  given. 
The  direction  which  all  culture  in  this  relation  takes, 
should  proceed  from  this  as  a  point  of  departure,  and  all 
discipline  and  effort  should  end  in  an  acquisition  that  is 
homogeneous  with  this  substantial  ground  of  style.  Or 
still  more  accurately,  the  individuality  itself  is  to  be 
deepened  and  made  more  capacious  and  distinct,  by  cul- 
ture, and  is  then  to  be  poured  forth  in  that  hearty  uncori' 
scions  purity  of  manner  which  is  its  proper  and  genuine 
style. 

And  this  leads  us  to  consider  the  true  method  of  form- 
ing and  cultivating  style. 

K  the  general  view  that  has  been  presented  of  the  na- 
ture both  of  language  and  style  be  correct,  it  is  plain  that 
the  mind  itself,  rather  than  the  style  itself,  should  receive 
the  formation  and  the  cultivation.  Both  language  and 
style  are  but  forms  in  which  the  human  mind  embodiea 
its  thought,  and  therefore  the  mind,  considered  as  the 
originating  power — as  that  which  is  to  find  an  utter- 
ance and  expression  —  should  be  the  chief  object  of  cul  ' 
ture,  even  in  relation  to  style.     A  cultivated  mind  con 


RELATION    OF    STYLE    TO    THOUGHT.  177 

tains  within  itself  resources  sufficient  for  all  its  purposes. 
The  direct  cultivation  of  the  mind,  is  the  indirect  culti- 
vation of  all  that  stands  connected  with  it. 

And  this  is  eminently  true  of  the  formal,  in  distinction 
from  the  material  departments  of  knowledge  —  of  those 
"  organic  (or  instrumental)  arts,"  as  Milton  calls  them, 
"  which  enable  men  to  discoiu'se  and  write  perspicuously, 
elegantly,  and  according  to  the  fitted  style  of  lofty,  mean 
or  lowly."  For  inasmuch  as  these  formal  departments 
of  knowledge  are  not  self-sufficient,  but  derive  their  sub- 
stance from  the  material  departments,  it  is  plain  that 
they  can  be  cultivated  with  power  and  success  only 
through  the  cultivation  of  these  latter.  Rhetoric,  in  Ol- 
der to  be  anything  more  than  an  idle  play  with  words 
and  figures  of  speech  —  in  order  to  a  substantial  existence, 
and  an  energetic  power  —  must  spring  out  of  logic;  and 
logic  again,  in  order  to  be  something  more  than  a  dry 
and  useless  permutation  of  the  members  of  syllogisms, 
must  be  grounded  in  the  necessary  laws  of  thought,  and 
so  become  bvit  the  inevitable  and  the  living  movement 
of  reason.  Thus  are  we  led  in  from  the  external  to  the 
internal  as  the  solid  ground  of  action  and  origination, 
and  are  made  to  see  that  the  culture  must  begin  here,  in 
every  instance,  and  work  out.  xVll  tliese  arts  and  sci- 
ences are  the  architecture  of  the  rational  and  thinkin<r 
mind  of  man,  and  all  changes  in  them,  either  in  the  way 
of  growth  or  decline,  proceed  from  a  change  that  has 
first  taiven  |)lae('  in  their  originating  ground.  They  are 
in  reality  the  index  of  th(!  hinnan  mind,  and  show  with 
most  delicate  seiisil)ility  all  that  is  jjassing,  in  this  ever- 
moving  principle.  What  are  the  langnages  literatures, 
laws,  governments,  and  (with  one  exception)  religions 
ol  the  globe  l)ut  the  history  of  tiie  lniiiiiin  mind  —  tho 
outstanding  nionmnent  of  what  it  has  t/iuu^/Ul 


1  7S  Rl<:i-.\TION    OF    STYLE    TO    TJIOUQIIT. 

It  may  be  said  -with  perfect  truth,  therefore,  that  the 
formation  and  cultivation  of  the  mind,  is  the  true  method 
of  formini;  and  cultivating  style.  And  there  are  two 
qualities  in  mental  culture  which  exert  such  a  direct  and 
powerful  influence  upon  style  as  to  merit  in  this  connec- 
tion a  particular  and  close  examiuation.  They  are  depth 
and  clearness. 

By  depth  of  culture  is  meant  that  devcloptnent  of  the 
mind  from  its  centre,  which  enal)les  it  to  exert  its  very 
best  power,  and  to  accomplish  the  utmost  of  which  it  is 
capable.  The  individual  mind  differs  in  respect  to  innate 
capacity.  Some  men  are  created  with  a  richer  and  more 
powerful  intellectual  constitution  than  others.  But  all 
are  capable  of  a  -jprofound  culture  ;  of  a  development 
that  shall  bring  out  the  entire  contents  and  capacity,  be 
they  more  or  less.  By  going  to  the  centre  of  the  mind — 
by  setting  into  play  those  profoundcr  faculties  which 
though  differing  in  degree,  are  yet  the  same  in  kind,  in 
every  man — a  culture  is  attained  that  exerts  a  most 
powerful  and  excellent  influence  upon  style.  Such  men- 
tal education  gives  body  to  style.  It  furnishes  the  mate- 
rial which  is  to  Jill  the  language  and  solidif;/  the  dis- 
course. The  form  in  which  a  profoundly  cultivated  mind 
expresses  itself  is  never  hollow  ;  the  language  which  it 
employs  not  being  alone — mere  words — is  never  dead.  It 
may,  perhaps,  be  silent  at  times,  for  such  a  mind  is  not 
necessarily  fluent,  but  when  it  does  speak,  the  product  has 
a  marked  character.  The  thought  and  its  expression 
form  an  identity  ;  are  coined  at  one  stroke. 

For  a  deeply  educated  mind  spontaneously  seeks  to 
know  truth  in  its  reality,  and  to  express  it  in  its  simpli- 
cit}^  Unconsciously,  because  it  is  its  nature  to  do  so,  it 
penetrates  to  the  heart  of  a  subject,  and  discourses  upon  it 
witli  a  simplicity  and  directness  which   precludes   any 


EELATION    OF    STYLE   TO    THOUGHT.  170 

separation  between  the  thought  and  the  words  in  which  it 
is  conveyed.  The  mind  whicli  has  but  a  superficial 
knowledge  of  the  subject-matter  of  its  discourse  cannot 
i-ender  the  language  it  employs  consiibstantial  with  its 
thought.  We  feel  that  the  words  have  been  Tiunted  ujy 
by  a  vacant  mind,  instead  of  ])roiii])ted  by  a  full  one. 
Thought  and  language  stand  apart,  because  thought  has 
not  reached  that  degree  of  profundity,  and  that  point  of 
clear  intuition,  and  tliat  height  of  energy,  in  conscious- 
ness, at  which  it  ntters  itself  in  language  that  is  truly  one 
with  itself,  and  alive  with  itself.  Wlienever  a  profoundly 
cultivated  mind  directs  itself  to  an  object  of  contempla- 
tion it  becomes  identical  with  it,  while  in  the  act  of  con- 
templation. The  distinction  between  the  contemplating 
subject,  and  the  contemplated  object,  vanishes  for  the 
time  being  ;  the  mind,  as  we  say  popularlj'^,  and  yet  with 
strict  philosopiiic  truth,  is  lost  in  the  theme,  and  the 
theme  during  this  temjDorary  process,  becomes  but  a  par- 
ticular state  of  the  mind.  The  object  of  contemplation, 
which  at  first  was  hefore  the  mind  is  now  in.  the  mind  ; 
that  to  which  the  mind  came  up  as  to  a  thing  objective 
and  extant,  has  now  been  transmuted  into  the  very  con- 
sciousness of  the  mind  itself,  and  is  therefore  the  mind 
itself,  take7i  and  held  in  this  tein2)orary process.^'     It  fol- 

*  The  doctrine  of  the  identity  of  subject  and  object  in  the  act  of  con- 
Bciousncss  \n  a  true  and  safe  cue,  it  seeins  to  us.  only  when  stated  with 
the  limitation  above  ;  only  when  the  identity  is  regarded  as  merely 
Tflatire — as  existinp  only  in,  and  during  the  act  of  comciouxness.  If, 
however,  the  identity  is  rej^arded  as  ahsolnte  and  ettitentinl — if  it  be 
asserted  that,  ai)art  from  coasoiousncss  and  back  of  consciousness,  the 
subject  and  object,  the  mind  and  the  truth,  are  absolutely  but  one 
essence — then  we  see  no  difference  between  the  doctrine  and  that  of 
the  '•  substantia  una  et  uniua  "  of  Spinoza.  The  ifleiility  in  this  case, 
notwithstanding  the  disclaimer  of  Schelling,  is  sameness  of  substance, 
and  there  is  but  one  sulistance  in  the  uuivorue.     The  truth  is,  that  sub* 


ISO         RELATION  OF  STYLE  TO  THOUGHT. 

lows,  consequently,  that  the  style  in  wliicli,  this  fusion  of 
truth  MMth  intellect  Iknvs  out,  must  be  as  near  the  perfec- 
tion of  furni  as  it  can  be.  The  style  of  such  a  mind  is 
similar  to  the  style  of  the  Infinite  mind,  as  it  is  seen  iu 
nature.  It  is  characterized  by  the  simplicity  and  freedom 
of  nature  itself.  Nor  let  this  be  re^^arded  either  as 
irreverent  or  extravagant.  We  are  confessedly  within  the 
sphere  of  the  finite  and  the  created,  and  therefore  are  at 
an  infinite  remove  from  Ilim  "who  is  wonderful  in  work- 
ing," and  yet  there  is  something  strongly  resembling  the 
workings  of  creative  power,  in  the  operations  of  a  mind 
deeply  absorbed  in  truth  and  full  of  the  idea.  As  the 
Divine  idea  becomes  a  phenomenon — manifests  itself  in 
external  nature — by  its  own  movement  and  guidance,  it 
necessarily  assumes  the  very  perfection  of  manner. — The 
great  attributes  of  nature,  the  suljlimity  and  beauty  of 
creation,  ai-ise  from  the  oneness  of  the  form  with  the  idea 
— the  transfusion  of  mind  into  matter.  In  like  manner, 
though  in  an  infinitely  lower  sphere  and  degree,  the 
human  idea,  profound,  full,  and  clear  in  consciousness, 
throws  itself  out  into  language,  in  a  style,  free,  simple, 
beautiful,  and,  it  may  be,  sublime  like  nature  itself.  And 
all  this  arises  because  thought  does  its  own  perfect  work — > 
because  truth  arrived  at  in  the  consciousness  of  the  pro- 
found thinker  is  simply  suffered  to  exercise  its  own  vital- 
ity, and  to  organize  itself  into  existence.  It  is  not  so 
much  because  the  individual  makes  an  effort  to  embody 
the  results  of  his  meditation,  as  because  these  results  have 
their  own  way,  and  take  their  own  form,  that  the  style  of 
their  appearance  is  so  grand.     It  has  been  asserted  above, 


ject  and  -object  are  not,  absolutely,  one  essence,  but  two  ;  but  become 
one  temporarily,  in  the  act  of  consciousness,  by  virtue  of  a  homogendty 
rather  than  an  absolute  identity,  of  essence. 


RELATION    OF    STYLE    TO    TIIOUGnT.  181 

that  style,  in  its  most  abstract' definition,  is  the  universal 
appearing  in  the  particular.  In  other  words,  it  is  the 
particular  and  peculiar  manner  in  which  the  individual 
mind  conceives  and  expresses  truth,  which  is  universal. 
Now  it  is  only  by  and  through  dej)th  of  mental  culti- 
vation, that  truth,  in  its  absolute  reality  and  in  its  vital 
energy,  is  reached  at  all,  A  superficial  education  never 
reaches  the  heart  of  a  subject — never  brings  the  mind  into 
contact  and  fusion  with  the  real  substance  of  the  topic  of 
discourse.  Of  course,  a  mind  thus  superficiall}''  educated 
in  reality  has  nothing  to  express.  It  has  not  reached  that 
depth  of  apprehension,  that  central  point  where  the  solid 
and  real  truth  lies,  at  which,  and  only  at  whicli,  it  is 
qualified  to  discourse.  It  may,  it  is  true,  speak  about  the 
given  topic,  but  before  it  can  speak  it  outj  in  a  grand,  im- 
pressive style,  and  in  discourse  which,  while  it  is  weighty 
and  solid,  also  dilates  and  thrills  and  glows  with  the  living 
verity,  it  must,  by  deep  thought,  have  effected  that  mental 
union  with  it  of  which  we  luxve  spoken. 

A  mind,  on  the  contrary,  that  has  received  a  central 
development,  and  whose  power  of  contemplation  is  strong, 
instead  of  woi'king  at  the  surface,  and  about  the  accidents, 
strikes  down  into  the  heart  and  essence,  and  obtains  an 
actual  view  of  truth  ;  and  under  the  impulse  imparted  by 
it,  and  by  the  light  radiated  from  it  at  all  points,  simply 
represents  it.  In  all  this  there  is  no  effort  at  expression — 
]io  endeavor  at  style — on  the  part  of  the  individual,  lie 
is  but  the  medium  of  conununication,  now  that,  by  his 
own  voluntary  thought,  the  miion  l)otweeii  his  mind  and 
truth  lias  been  brought  about. — All  that  he  needs  to  do 
is,  to  absorb  himself  still  moi-o  profoundly  in  the  groat 
theme,  and  to  let  it  use  him  as  its  organ.  It  will  llow 
through  his  iiulividualism,  and  take  form  and  hue  from 
it,  as  inevitably  as  the  formless  and  colorless  light,  acfpiirea 


1S2         RELATION  OF  STYLE  TO  THOUGHT. 

both  form  and  color  by  coming  into  the  beautiful  arch  of 
the  sky. 

By  clearness,  as  an  element  in  culture,  is  meant  such 
an  education  of  the  mind,  as  arms  it  with  a  penetrating 
and  clear  vision,  so  that  it  beholds  objects  in  distinct  out- 
line. "When  united  with  depth  of  culture,  this  element 
is  of  great  worth,  and  diffuses  through  the  productions  of 
the  mind  some  of  the  most  desirable  qualities.  Depth, 
without  clearness  of  intuition,  is  obscurity.  Though  there 
may  be  substantial  thinlcing,  and  real  truth  may  be  reached 
by  the  mind,  yet  like  the  vKr^  out  of  which  the  material 
universe  was  formed,  according  to  the  ancient  philosophy, 
it  needs  to  be  irradiated  by  light,  before  it  becomes  a 
defined,  distinct,  and  beautiful  form.  Indeed,  without 
clearness  of  intuition,  truth  must  remain  in  the  depths  of 
the  mind,  and  cannot  be  really  expressed.  The  mind, 
without  close  and 'clear  thinking,  is  but  a  dark  chaos  of 
ideas,  intimations,  and  feelings.  It  is  true,  that  in  these 
is  the  substance  of  truth,  for  the  human  mind  is,  by  its 
constitution,  full  of  truth ;  yet  these  its  contents  need  to 
be  elahorated.  These  undefined  ideas  need  to  become 
clear  conceptions ;  these  dark  and  pregnant  intimations 
need  to  be  converted  into  substantial  verities  ;  and  these 
swelling  but  vague  feelings  must  acquire  definition  and 
shape ;  not  merel}'  that  the  consciousness  of  one  mind 
may  be  conveyed  over  into  that  of  another,  but  also  in 
order  to  the  mind's  full  understaiiding  of  itself. 

And  such  culture  manifests  itself  in  the  purity  and 
perspicuity  of  the  style  in  which  it  conveys  its  thoughts. 
Having  a  distinctly  clear  apprehension  of  truth,  the  mind 
utters  its  conceptions  with  all  that  simplicity  and  jjerti- 
nence  of  language  which  characterizes  the  narrative  of 
an  honest  eye-witness.  Nothing  intervenes  between 
thought  and  expression.     The  clear,  direct  view,  instan- 


RELATION    OF    STYLE    TO    TnOL'GIIT.  183 

taneoudy  becomes  the  clear,  direct  statement.  And  when 
the  clear  conception  is  thus  nnited  with  the  profound 
intuition,  thought  assumes  its  most  perfect  form.  The 
form  in  which  it  appears,  is  full  and  round  witli  solid 
trutJi,  and  yet  distinct  and  transparent.  The  immaterial 
principle  is  embodied  in  just  the  right  amount  of  matter  ; 
the  former  does  not  overflow,  nor  does  the  latter  overlay. 
The  discourse  exhibits  the  same  opposite  and  counter- 
balancing excellences  which  we  see  in  the  foi'ms  of 
nature — the  simplicity  and  the  richness,  the  negligence 
and  the  niceness,  the  solid  opacity  and  the  aerial  trans- 
parence.* 

■"  Shakspeare  affords  innumerable  exemplifications  of  the  character- 
istic here  spoken  of.  In  the  following  passages  notice  the  purity  and 
cleanliness  of  the  style  in  which  he  exhibits  his  thought.  As  in  a  per- 
fect embodiment  in  nature,  there  is  nothing  ragged,  or  to  be  sloughed 
off: 

*         *         *        Chaste  as  the  icicle 

That's  curded  by  the  frost  from  purest  snow, 

And  hangs  on  Dian's  temple. 

Conolanus,  V.  3. 

*****        This  hand 

As  soft  a.s  dove's  down,  and  as  white  as  it ;  » 

Or  ELliioiiian's  tooth,  or  the  fann'd  snow, 

That's  bolted  by  the  northern  blasts  twice  o'er. 

Winter's  Tale,  IV.  3. 

Or  if  that  surly  spirit,  melancholy. 

Had  baked  thy  Vjlood,  and  made  it  heavy,  thick  ; 

Which  else  runs  tickling  up  and  down  the  veins. 

Kill ff  John,  III.  3. 

And  I,  of  !adif;8  most  deject  and  wretched. 
That  .'<uckod  the  honey  of  his  music  vows. 
Now  see  that  noble  and  most  sovereign  reason, 
Like  sweet  bella  jangled,  out  of  tune,  and  harsli. 

iramld,  HI.  1. 


184.  KELATION   OF   STYLE   TO   THOUGHT. 

It  is  rare  to  find  sncli  a  union  of  the  two  main  elements 
of  culture,  and  consequfutly  rare  to  tind  them  in  style. 
A  profoundly  contemplative  mind  is  often  mystic  and 
vague  in  its  discourse,  because  it  has  not  come  to  a  clear, 
as  well  as  profound,  consciousness — because  distinctness 
luis  not  gone  along  with  depth  of  apprehension.  The  dis- 
course of  such  a  mind  is  thoughtful  and  suggestive,  it  may 
be,  but  is  lacking  in  tliat  scientilic,  logical,  power  which 
penetrates  and  illumines.  It  has  warmth  and  glow,  it 
may  be,  but  it  is  the  warmth  of  the  stove  (to  use  the  com- 
parison of  another) — warmth  without  liglit. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  often  happens  that  the  culture  of 
the  mind  is  clear  but  shallow.  In  this  case  nothing  but 
the  merest  and  most  obvious  commonplace  is  uttered,  in  a 
manner  intelligible  and  plain  enough,  to  be  sure,  but  with- 
out force  or  M-eight,  or  even  genuine  fire,  of  style.  Shal- 
low waters  show  a  very  clear  bottom,  and  but  little  inten- 
sity of  light  is  needed  in  order  to  display  the  pebbles  and 
clean  sand.  That  must  be  a  "  purest  ray  serene  " — a  pen- 
cil of  strongest  light — which  discloses  the  black,  rich, 
wreck-strown  depths.  For  the  clearness  of  dejitli  is  very 
different  from  the  clearness  of  shallowness.  The  former 
is  a  positive  quality.  It  is  the  positive  and  powerful  irradi- 
ation of  that  whicli  is  solid  and  dark,  l)y  that  which  is 
ethereal  and  light.  The  latter  is  a  negative  quality.  It 
is  the  mere  absence  of  darkness,  because  there  is  no  sub- 
stance to  be  dark — no  hody  in  which  (if  we  may  be  allowed 
the  expression)  darkness  can  inhere,  Nothing  is  more 
luminous  than  solid  fire  ;  nothing  is  more  flashy  than  an 
ignited  void. 

These  two  fundamental  characteristics  of  mental  culture 
lie  at  the  foundation  of  style.  Even  if  the  secondary 
qualities  of  style  could  exist  without  the  weightiness  and 
clearness  of  manner  which  spring  from  the  union  of  pro 


EELATION  OF  STYLE  TO  THOUGHT.  1S5 

fonnd  with  distinct  apprehension,  they  would  exist  in  vain. 
The  o)-nainent  is  worthless,  if  there  is  nothing  to  sustain 
it.  The  bas-relief  is  valueless,  without  the  slab  to  sup- 
port it.  But  these  secondary  qualities  of  style — the 
beauty,  and  the  elegance,  and  tlie  harmony — derive  all  their 
charm  and  power  from  springing  out  of  the  primary  quali- 
ties, and  in  this  way,  ultimately,  out  of  the  deep  and  clear 
culture  of  the  mind  itself — from  beiuij  the  white  tiower  of 
the  black  root. 

Stvle,  when  having  this  mental  and  natural  origin,  is  to 
be  put  into  the  first  class  of  fine  forms.  It  is  the  form  of 
thought ;  and,  as  a  piece  of  art,  is  as  worthy  of  study 
and  admiration,  as  those  glorious  material  forms  M'hich 
embody  the  ideas  of  Phidias,  Michael  Angelo,  and  Raphael. 
It  is  the  form  in  which  the  human  mind  manifests  its 
freest,  purest,  and  most  mysterious  activity — its  thinking. 
There  is  nothing  mechanical  in  its  origin,  or  stale  in  its 
nature.  It  is  plastic  and  fresh  as  the  immortal  energy,  of 
which  it  is  the  air  and  bearing. 


SCIENTIFIC  AXD  POPULAE  EDUCATIOK* 


The  general  and  growing  interest  in  the  subject  of 
Education  is  one  of  the  most  hopeful  features  of  the  pres- 
ent age.  Throughout  the  country,  the  public  mind  is  be- 
coming increasing!}'  awake  to  the  importance  of  knowl- 
edge, and  the  nation  as  a  body  is  coming  to  regard  Educa- 
tion as  one  of  the  great  national  interests.  Ah-eady  is  it 
provided  for  and  protected,  as  commerce,  and  manufac- 
tures, and  agriculture  are  provided  for;  and  the  number 
is  already  large  who  clearly  see  and  feel  that  it  is  of  more 
importance,  and  exerts  a  far  greater  influence  upon  the 
perpetuity  of  the  Republic,  than  any  or  all  of  the  econom- 
ical interests  united. 

There  is,  however,  one  characteristic  attending  this 
general  interest  upon  the  subject  of  Education  which  can- 
not but  strike  the  eye  of  a  thoughtful  observer.  It  is  a 
characteristic  which,  as  history  shows,  invariably  attends 
all  action  of  the  jiopular  mind  in  proportion  as  this  be- 
comes more  extensive  and  far-reaching,  and  a  characteris- 
tic that  is  injurious  in  its  inlluen(;e  if  it  does  not  find  its 
counterj)art  and  corrective.  \V^e  rcfci-  lo  the  tendem^y  to 
popularize  knowledge  in  an  excessive  degree.  I3y  this 
is  not  meant  the  disposition  to  diffuse  knowledge  among 
the  greatest  Tiumbfi-  i)os.^iltl(',  Itut  the  disposition  to  i-cnder 

*  Reprinted  from  the  Bibliotheca  Sacra,  January,  IS-jO. 


ISS  SCIENTIFIC    AND'  TOPULAR   EDUCATION. 

all  knowledge  snperlicial,  and  in  this  form  to  diffuse  it 
through  socict}'.  If  we  mistake  not,  there  are  signs  of  a 
disposition  to  destroy  the  distinction  between  popular  and 
scientiiic  knowledge,  and  while  engaged  in  the  laudable 
effort  to  spread  information  as  widely  as  possible  among 
all  classes,  to  do  it  at  the  expense  of  that  profound  and 
scientific  culture  which  must  exist  sonieiohere,  in  some 
portion  of  the  community  at  least,  in  order  to  the  perpetu- 
ity and  vitality  of  even  the  common  information  of 
society. 

There  is  no  better  wav  of  correctino-  this  and  kindred 
errors,  tiian  by  establishing  profound  and  comprehensive 
views  respecting  the  whole  subject,  and  the  subject  as  a 
whole.  It  is  a  defective  view  of  knowledge  as  a  tohule^  an 
incomplete  view  of  the  system  of  education  which  lies  at 
the  Ijottom  of  the  error  in  question.  It  is  forgotten  that 
tlic  l)()(lv  of  knowledge  which  is  souijht  to  be  diffused  is 
an  organism  with  central  and  superficial  parts,  and  that 
the  complete  system  of  instruction  which  proposes  to  im- 
part this  knowledge  is  an  organized  system,  of  whicli  no 
better  definition  can  be  given  than  that  all  its  parts  are 
vitally  connected,  and  are  reciprocally  means  and  ends. 
Popular  knowledge,  thei*efore,  caimot  be  diffused  separ- 
ated from  scientific  knowledge,  and  this  latter  again  re- 
quires to  pass  through  the  tests  of  popularization,  in  order 
that  it  may  be  proved  to  have  a  real  and  not  imaginaiy 
existence ;  in  order  that  it  may  be  seen  to  be  one  with 
truth  and  real  being,  and  not  the  mere  figment  of  the 
brain.  It  will  be  our  object,  accoi-dingly,  to  mark  dis- 
tinctly the  difference  between  scientific  and  popular  knowl- 
edge, and  to  show  the  necessity  and  worth  of  those  institu- 
tions whose  office  it  is  to  impart  scientific  in  distinction 
from  popular  education. 

Knowledge  traced  to  its  ultimate  is  in  the  form  of  fun- 


-   SCIENTIFIC   AND   POPULAR   EDUCATION.  1S9 

dameiital  truths.  These  fundamental  truths,  or  first 
])rinciples,  as  applied  to  particular  cases,  or  run  out  to 
meet  the  ordinary  wants  of  mankind,  lose  their  scientific 
and  profound  appearance,  become  popular  in  their  char- 
acter, nseful  in  their  results,  and  go  to  constitute  the  com- 
mon every-daj  knowledge  of  society.  The  gold  originally 
in  the  form  of  heavy  bullion  has  become  light  coin,  and  a 
useful  circulating  medium. 

There  is,  for  example,  an  amount  of  information  diffused 
tiirough  society  which  is  sufficient  for  the  practical  pur- 
poses of  commerce,  manufactures  and  agriculture ;  and, 
by  virtue  of  the  common  intelligeuce  in  these  departments, 
the  ship  sails  swiftly,  the  machine  works  well,  and  the 
earth  brings  forth  abundantly.  But  it  is  not  expected,  and 
mider  the  present  arrangements  of  society  it  is  not  rational 
to  expect,  that  all  who  work  in  these  S])heres  should  pos- 
sess a  thorough  knowledge  of  those  principles  of  physics 
— those  first  truths  of  astronomy,  and  chemistry,  and 
mechanics,  and  mathematics — which  lie  under  all  this 
action  of  man.  And  yet  this  body  of  principles,  the 
physical  science  which  is  l>eneath  this  practice  and  practi- 
cal api)lication,  is  essential  knowledge;  sustaining  tlie 
same  rehvtion  to  all  the  arts,  manufactures,  and  improve- 
ments, all  the  comforts  and  elegancies  of  civilization,  that 
tlie  flowers  and  fruit  of  the  tree  sustain  to  the  black  root 
iindurground.  And  upon  the  preservation  .iihI  luitlior 
development  of  these  fundanuMital  truths,  depend  tlu-  jicr- 
manen(;e  of  the  present  civilization,  aiul  its  progressive 
improvement. 

Again,  there  is  in  the  midst  of  the  ])Oo])le  an  amount 
of  infoi'mation  resj)e(;fing  legal  and  civil  affairs,  sullicient 
to  make  them  (rareful  of  their  j)ersonal  rights,  and  watch- 
ful ov(.'r  the  acts  and  intentions  of  government.  No  ]k'<)- 
ple  on   the  face  oi'  the  globe  arc  80  well    informed  in  ;di 


190  SCIENTIFIC    AND    POPULAR   EDUCATION. 

that  pertains  to  judicial  and  civil  matters,  as  the  people  of 
the  United  States,  An  appeal  to  reason  and  law  always 
goes  home  to  the  mind  of  the  mass,  and  produces  a  deep 
and  great  movement,  as  it  could  not,  if  we  were  an  nn- 
informod  and  barbarous  population.  Still,  it  will  not  do 
to  say  that  this  knowledge,  though  adequate  for  all  the 
wants  of  common  life,  is  equal  in  degree  and  depth  to  that 
which  is  implied  in  a  thorough  nndcrstandingof  the  scien- 
ces of  law  and  government.  It  will  not  do  to  say,  that 
the  great  body  of  ns  are  possessed  of  such  a  clear  and  deep 
insight  into  the  first  principles  of  legal  and  political  phil- 
osophy as  characterized  the  framers  of  the  Constitution  of 
the  United  States,  And  we  do  tacitly,  but  in  a  free  and 
manly  way,  acknowledge  this,  when,  in  order  to  form  or 
revise  a  code  of  laws  or  a  constitution,  we  meet  and  choose 
the  wisest  and  most  thoughtful  of  our  number  to  do  this 
important  work — a  work  that  requires  a  more  than  ordi- 
nary and  popular  acquaintance  with  law  and  legislation. 

Again,  in  this  Christian  land  there  is  an  amount  of 
knowledge  concerning  God  and  the  eternal  world,  the 
soul  of  man  and  its  obli<>:ations,  which  is  enough  to  consti- 
tute  every  man  responsible  before  his  Judge,  and  enough, 
if  rightly  improved,  to  bring  about  right  relations  between 
man  and  God.  But,  besides  this  common  knowledge  upon 
moral  and  religious  subjects,  there  is  a  science  of  morals 
and  religion,  for  the  study  and  exposition  of  which,  we 
are  willing  to  sustain  a  particular  class  of  men  in  the 
midst  of  us.  It  is  because  we  desire  to  have  our  ordinary 
knowledge  upon  these  highest  of  subjects  made  still  more 
clear,  and  vivid,  and  efficacious,  that  we  listen  every  Sab- 
bath to  one  whose  business  it  is  to  investigate  and  expound 
the  j>ri7iciples  of  the  word  of  God. 

Thus  it  is  apparent  that  when  we  go  below  the  surface, 
and  get  at  knowledge  in  its  solidity  and  substance,  we  find 


SCEEXTiriC    AXD   POPULAR   EDUCATION.  101 

it  in  the  form  of  principles — we  find  it  science.  Uelow 
all  the  manifold  uses  and  applicatloiis  of  knowledge,  as 
they  appear  in  the  ordinary  life  of  men,  there  lies  the 
great  deposit  of  primary  truth,  inexhaustible  in  itself, 
and  ever  yielding  new  treasures  to  the  educated  and 
thoughtful  mind.  Now^  with  this  lower  stratum  of  truth 
mankind  raxist  have  communication,  or  their  course  is 
hackioard  in  all  respects.  New  inventions  in  the  arts  soon 
become  old  and  pass  out  of  use ;  what  at  first  were  strik- 
ing facts  soon  lose  their  novelty ;  the  old  modes  of  pre- 
seutino:  those  truths  which  from  their  very  nature  are  the 
same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever,  become  wearisome — 
in  fine,  the  floatiufj  information  of  a  communitv  is  soon 
worn  out,  and  l)ecome3  powerless,  unless,  from  the  region 
of  principles,  there  is  constantly  coming  off  upon  it  an  in- 
vicoratino-  influence  :  unless  the  ino-enious  mind  of  a  AV^att 
or  a  Fulton,  now  and  then,  startles  society  and  forms  a 
new  era  in  its  civilization,  by  a  wonderful  api)lication  of 
an  old  but  buried  principle  of  natural  philosophy  ;  unless 
the  thoughtful  mind  of  a  Newton  pours  through  old  sci- 
ence the  light  and  life  of  a  new  principle,  which  to  the 
end  of  time  is  to  influence  this  domain  of  knowledge  with 
as  steady  and  extensive  power  as  that  of  gravitation  itself ; 
unless  the  mighty  and  passionate  spirit  of  a  Luther  awak- 
ens the  religious  consciousness  of  all  Europe  to  the  recog- 
nition of  tliat  great  primal  doctrine  of  Christianity,  on 
which  man's  etei-nal  life  hangs. 

Having  said  thus  much  upon  knowledge  in  its  scientilic 
an*l  in  its  practical  form,  and  of  the  right  relation  of  the 
latter  to  the  former,  we  proceed  to  sj^eak  of  colleges  as  the 
institutions  for  keo[)ing  up  this  right  relation;  as  the  in- 
strumentality whereby  science  and  practice  are  kei)t  con- 
nected, and  made  to  interpenetrate  each  other,  to  their  mu- 
tual benetit,  and  to  the  growtiiof  mankind  in  knowledge. 


102  SCIENTmC    AND   POPULAR   EDUCATION. 

I.  One  way  wliorol)}'  colleges  do  this  is  by  not  suffering 
the  distinction  between  scientific  and  practical  knowledge 
to  he  lost  sight  of,  and  by  keeping  in  existence  an  educa- 
tion that  is  founded  upon  tlie  study  of  first  principles.' 

It  is  the  aim  of  the  higher  institutions  of  learning,  to 
give  ^Yhat  is  called  a  "lil)eral"  education:  that  is,  one 
which  is  distinguished  from  that  given  in  common  schools, 
by  being  both  more  extensive  and  more  profound.  The 
lower  institutions  of  learning  take  the  mind  in  the  earlier 
period  of  its  existence,  when  it  is  best  fitted  for  the  acqui- 
sition of  all  that  part  of  knowledge  which  is  gained  by 
the  memory,  while  the  college  receives  it  at  the  beginning 
of  that  period  when  its  powers  commence  their  maturity, 
and  it  is  prepared  to  get  that  knowledge  of  princi[)les,  of 
which  we  have  spoken,  which  comes  from  reflection.  In 
the  theory  of  education  adopted  by  our  wise  forefathers, 
and,  as  history  shows,  by  all  wise  founders  of  common- 
wealths, the  future  citizen  is  to  be  surrendered  to  the  pri- 
mary school  during  the  years  of  boyhood,  when  the  imag- 
ination and  memory  are  active,  that  he  may  learn  to  read 
and  write,  and  may  acquire  all  that  knowledge  of  geogra- 
phy and  arithmetic  and  history  which  is  fitted  for  his 
years,  and  which  will  be  useful  in  the  transaction  of  the 
ordinary  business  of  after  life,  AVhen  the  higher  facul- 
ties begin  to  dawn,  and  the  years  of  reflection  are  coming 
in,  he  is  then  to  be  transferred  to  an  institution  which  will 
guide  him  into  the  paths  of  science,  and  introduce  him 
into  that  world  of  principles  from  which  he  is  to  derive, 
if  he  ever  does,  high  moral  and  intellectual  power,  and 
make  himself  a  strong  man  among  men.  Colleges  and 
Connnon  Schools  are  therefore  not  to  be  opposed  to  each 
other.  Each  has  its  own  proper  work  to  do.  The  one 
cannot  do  the  work  of  the  other,  and  even  if  it  could,  yet 
boyhood  cannot  receive  the  instruction  of  ojDening  man- 


SCIENTIFIC   AND   POPULAR   EDUCATION.  193 

Jiood,  and  calm  and  reflective  manhood  craves  a  more  pro- 
found learning  than  that  which  satisfies  inquisitive  and 
acquisitive  boyhood.  The  two  are  not  independent  of 
each  other  like  two  different  machines,  but  are  living 
members  of  the  same  body,  and  therefore  the  one  cannot 
Bay  to  the  other,  "  I  have  no  need  of  thee,"  nor  can  the 
other  say  to  the  one,  "  I  have  no  need  of  thee." 

Colleges  are  thus  a  standing  evidence  of  the  validity  of 
the  distinction  between  scientific  and  practical  knowledge. 
Their  aim  is  to  give  an  education  which  will  develop  the 
mind  itself,  irrespective,  for  the  time  being,  of  the  uses 
that  may  be  made  of  learning ;  knowing  that  if  there  only 
be  produced  witliin  the  youth  the poiver  to  work,  the  occa- 
sions and  the  inciteuieuts  to  exercise  it  will  not  be  want- 
inir  in  a  world  that  is  full  of  work.  And  tliev  do  this  not 
so  much  by  imparting  an  amount  of  separate  facts  of 
which  immediate  use  may  be  made,  as  by  awakening  the 
intellect  of  the  young  man  to  the  recognition  of  first 
trutiis  in  the  various  departments  of  learning.  It  cannot 
be  too  carefully  reuiembered,  that  a  collegiate,  or  liberal 
education,  differs  from  what  is  called  a  common  educa- 
tion, by  its  having  more  than  the  latter  can  the  facul- 
ties  of  the  individual,  the  very  mind  itself,  in  its  eye. 
Its  object  is  not  mainly  to  furnish  the  mind  with  enough 
to  meet  daily  wants,  but  to  fill  it  with  power,  and  to 
ground  it  in  priuciples,  as  a  reserved  fund  upon  which 
to  draw  at  any  time  and  dining  all  time.  It  is  a  mis- 
take to  suppose  that  that' only  is  useful  knowledge,  of 
which  an  immediate  and  ])ali)al)le  use  can  be  made,  in  the 
acipiisitiou  c^f  wealth,  or  in  providing  for  the  daily  wants 
of  the  body.  This  is  indeed  useful,  but  it  is  not  enough 
for  all  the  exigencies  of  this  life  even,  and  il  surely  is  not 
enouo-h  for  those  of  the  life  to  come.  When  revolutions  in 
human  affairs  break  out,  when  states  arc  to  be  foumlcd, 
0 


194  SCIENTIFIC    AND    rOl'ULAR    EDUCATION. 

wlien  institutions  that  are  to  affect  the  progress  of  the  raco 
are  to  be  established,  when  laws  are  to  be  made — when, 
in  short,  the  primary  and  foundation-work,  depending 
upon  primary  and  fundamental  truths,  is  to  be  done — tlien 
the  liberal  education  sliows  itself  to  be  the  useful  educa- 
tion. In  these  trying  times,  the  reserved  fund  of  mental 
power  and  clear  intuition  of  principles  may  be  drawn 
upon,  and  its  untold  worth  be  seen  in  the  origination  of  a 
great  instrument  like  the  American  Constitution,  or  in  the 
start  of  a  great  idea  like  that  of  popular  liberty  which  is 
to  work  through  masses  of  men  with  superhuman  power.* 
We  say,  then,  that  if  the  distinction  between  the  knowl- 
edge of  principles  and  the  knowledge  of  facts  is  an  im- 
portant one,  the  preservation  of  the  distinction,  and  the 
foundation  of  a  particular  sort  of  education  upon  it,  are 
still  more  important.  Moreover,  unless  the  current  in- 
formation of  society  is  kept  moving  and  alive,  by  the 
presence  and  the  power  of  a  system  of  liberal  education, 
and  by  those  who  are  yearly  coming  out  fresh  from  the 
contact  with  science  and  principles,  it  speedily  diminishes 
in  amount,  and  loses  the  vitality  it  once  possessed,  and 
society  sinks  down  into  barbarism.  The  reign  of  barbarism 
began  in  Greece,  when  the  liberal  education  of  its  young 
men  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  sophists,  who  substituted 
the  denial  and  disputation  of  first  principles,  for  that  clear 
and  profound  enunciation  of  them  which  characterized  an 
elder  day.  When  this  class  of  public  teachers  appeared, 
there  Avas  a  o-reat  amount  of  useful  knowledge  current  in 

*  For  some  excellent  thoughts  upon  the  relation  of  scientific  to  popu- 
lar knowledge,  see  an  article  upon  thooloj^fy,  by  Ullmann,  in  the  Stu- 
dien  und  Kritiken  for  1849.  The  truly  fruitful  effort  for  the  people 
and  popular  life,  he  says,  is  not  merely  the  direct  and  immediate  effort, 
but  the  thorough  cultivation,  al«o,  of  all  those  departments  of  knowl- 
edge whose  results  cannot  pass  over  into  common  life,  except  at  second 
band,  and  by  radiation. 


SCIEXTrFIC    AND    POPULAR   EDUCATION.  195 

Grecian  society,  but  it  soon  l)et raved  the  lack  of  that 
vigor  Avhich  arises  from  the  diltusion  of  correct  principles 
in  politics  and  morals,  and  Mdiicli  liad  kept  it  fresh  and 
liealthy,  and  not  many  years  elapsed  Ijefore  this  whole 
mass  of  current  and  connnon  information  was  found  to  l)e 
utterly  powerless  towards  the  preservation  and  glory  of 
the  state  when  threatened  b}'^  Philip,  and  cruml>led  away 
like  some  noble  shaft  tiiat  has  been  struck  with  the  sap- 
rot. 

Neither  let  it  be  supposed,  that  by  making  and  pre- 
eerving  the  distinction  between  a  ccmimon  and  a  liberal 
education,  any  injury  is  done  to  useful  and  practical 
knowledge.  It  is  only  by  the  maintenance  and  widest 
possible  diffusion  of  scientific  learning,  tiiat  this  common 
every -day  knowledge  arises  and  is  current ;  for  tlie  com- 
mon information  of  societv  is  nothiiif;  more  or  less  than 
the  fine  and  diffusive  radiance  of  a  more  sul)stantial  and 
profound  culture.  This  liglit,  spreading  and  peneti-ating 
in  all  directions,  is  an  clHiience  from  a  ball  of  solid  fire. 
All  this  general  and  practical  inl'oi-iiiatioii  which  distin- 
guishes an  enlightened  fi-oni  a  savage,  or  though  civilized 
yet  ignorant  state  of  society — which  distinguishes  England 
and  the  United  States  from  Africa  and  South  America — 
did  not  grow  uj)  s[)ontaneously  from  the  earth  ;  is  not 
the  effect  of  a  colder  climate  or  a  harder  soil.  It  has 
been  exhaling  for  centuries  from  colleges  and  nnivei'sities; 
it  has  been  distilling  for  ages  from  the  alembic  of  tlio 
scholars  hi'ain. 

The  condition  of  society  at  any  one  given  time,  must  bo 
lookfid  upon  as  the;  total  result  of  past  instil  ul  ions.  It,  is 
falnc,  and  absurd,  to  assunu;  that  the  [^resent  form  of 
things  started  into  being  in  a  twinkling,  and  is  totally  uii- 
conne<;t(!d  with  what  has  gone  hefore.  This  is  true  of  all 
that  enters    into  the    idea  of   social    existence,  but    it    itj 


IOC)  SCIENTIFIC   AND   POPULAR   EDUCATION. 

emphatically  true  of  the  j^eneral  state  of  information. 
And  if  we  would  know  Avlij  there  is  at  this  present  mo- 
ment such  a  "Tcat  amount  of  intelliij-ence  anions;  tho 
descendants  of  En^-lish  colonists,  and  such  an  entire 
absence  of  intelligence  among  the  descendants  of  Spanish 
colonists  on  this  western  continent,  we  have  only  to  re- 
member that  the  Imio-HsIi  brouiz-ht  over  books,  and  l)uilt 
churches  and  founded  colleges  simultaneously,  while  the 
Spaniards  did  no  such  thing,  but  attempted  to  found  and 
perpetuate  state  governments,  and  to  rear  np  society, 
upon  the  current  maxims  of  worldly  and  selfish  policy. 
If,  M'hen  Hernando  Cortez  subjugated  Mexico  to  the 
Spanish  crown,  and  provided  for  the  colonization  of  that 
region,  he  had  laid  such  foundations  for  national  existence 
and  growth  as  were  laid  by  the  Puritans,  and  that  popula- 
tion for  three  centuries  had  been  feeling  the  vigor  of  just 
Ijrinciples,  in  social  intercourse,  in  legal  arrangements,  in 
govermnent  and  religion,  it  wonld  not  be  the  ignorant  and 
powerless  mass  it  is.  If  he  had  provided  for  the  investi- 
gation of  the  pi'inciples  of  knowledge,  and  for  raising  up 
a  body  of  thoughtful  and  wise  men,  leading  and  powerful 
spirits,  like  those  who  planned  and  acted  in  the  great 
emergency  in  our  history,  would  not  have  been  wanting 
in  her  hour  of  national  trial. 

II.  And  this  leads  us  to  notice  a  second  way  whereby 
the  higher  institutions  of  learning  keep  scientific  and 
popular  knowledge  in  connection,  and  thus  elevate  and 
improve  the  whole  body  of  the  pcoi)le  in  a  commonwealth. 
And  this  is,  by  constantly  sending  out  into  society  j)ro- 
fesaional  men. 

Most  of  the  members  of  the  three  professions  are  col- 
lege graduates,  and  the  few  who  have  raised  themselves 
to  posts  of.  honor  and  usefulness  by  their  own  resolute  and 
private  study  are  no  testimony  against  the  fact,  that  pro- 


SCIENTIFIC   AND   POPULAR   EDUCATION,  197 

fessional  influence  is  founded  upon  scientific  knowledge. 
These  few  instances  only  go  to  show  that  if  there  is  a  fixed 
determination,  a  man  may  overcome  all  obstacles,  and  may 
become  an  eminent  physician,  jurist,  or  divine,  not  be- 
cause of  the  want  of  direct  aid  from  the  hio-her  institutions 
of  learning,  but  in  spite  of  that  want.  And  even  these 
do  not  accpiire  their  knowledge  entirely  independent  of 
universities.  Even  tliese  must  have  access  to  a  library  of 
old  books,  which,  one  with  some  degree  of  truth  has  as- 
serted to  be  the  true  university,  and  which,  at  an}'  rate,  is 
the  expression  of  the  thought  and  research  of  universities. 

It  may  be  said,  therefore,  without  fear  of  contradiction, 
that  professional  life  and  influence  gi'ows  out  of  collegiate 
education,  and  can  grow  from  no  other  root.  And  if  we 
would  estimate  tlie  eflect  upon  society  of  the  decline  and 
fall  of  the  higher  literary  institutions,  we  must  first  esti- 
mate the  eflect  of  the  entire  removal  from  among  us  of 
the  physician,  the  lawyer,  and  tiic  clergyman,  and  of  the 
entire  destruction  of  the  three  great  sciences  of  medicine, 
law,  and  theology.  It  is  a  forcible  saying  of  Cicero,  that 
the  Athenian  state  could  no  more  have  been  sustained  and 
regulated  witliout  that  grave  and  vencral)le  court,  the 
Areopagus,  than  the  world  could  be  sustained  and  regu- 
lated without  the  providence  of  God.  With  greater  truth 
and  force,  it  may  be  aflirmed  that  modern  society  might 
as  easily  be  k(;i)t  in  ])rosperous  existence  without  the 
providence  of  God,  as  without  the  presence  and  ])ervading 
])Ower  of  those  professions  wliose  provin(-o  it  is  to  investi- 
gate and  expound  natural,  civil,  judicial,  and  religious 
tiMith  ;  for  they  are  themselves  one  of  tiie  most  benignant 
of  Divine  providences. 

iJut  wc  shall,  perha|)S,  be  abb;  to  fDini  a  more  correct 
estimate  of  the  worth  d"  ])i-ofessional  men,  and  conse- 
quently of  those  institutions  which  train  Ihcni  u[>,  by  an 


108  SCIENTIFIC   AND   POPULAR   EDUCATION. 

examination  of  the  business  and  influence  cf  each  class 
Bepai'utely. 

1.  It  is  the  business  of  the  physician  to  study  the  nature 
and  hiws  of  life,  especially  of  animal  life,  and  still  more 
especially  of  human  life,  that  he  may  understand  the 
causes  of  disease  and  death.  It  is  also  his  business  to 
study  material  nature,  that  he  may  know  the  various  ele- 
ments that  enter  into  it,  and  their  relation  to  the  chief 
practical  purjioses  of  his  j^rofession,  viz,  the  preservation 
of  health,  and  tlic  cure  of  disease.  Settinj^  aside,  there- 
fore, the  palpable  and  immediate  benefit  which  the  indi- 
vidual derives  from  the  medical  man  as  he  stands  ijy  his 
bed  side,  there  is  an  amount  of  information  put  in  cur- 
rency by  him,  which  ministers  much  to  that  general  cheer- 
fulness and  absence  of  anxious  apprehensions,  which, 
like  fresh  breezes  and  bright  sunshine,  contributes  much 
to  the  physical  well-being  of  society.  The  investigations 
and  influence  of  the  medical  profession  rid  community 
of  that  superstitious  dread  respecting  the  strange  processes 
of  nature,  and  the  wonderful  functions  of  animal  life, 
which,  indeed,  in  its  highest  intensity  is  to  be  found  only 
in  savage  society,  but  which,  in  its  milder  but  neverthe- 
less most  feai'ful  form,  marks  the  histor}'  of  ages  highly 
educated  in  other  blanches  of  knowledge,  but  ignorant  of 
this,  because  its  cultivation  had  not  kept  pace  with  that 
of  tlie  other.  For  example,  whole  communities  in  Europe, 
during  the  middle  ages,  were  often  set  in  a  tremor  by 
natural  phenomena  that  would  not  startle  the  child  of  the 
present  day,  because  the  ignorant  imagination  of  the 
time  filled  the  mysterious,  it  is  true,  yet  beautiful  and 
liarmless  world  of  vegetable  and  ariimal  life,  witii  malig- 
nant powers  and  horrible  spirits.  And  had  there  been  as 
mucli  general  information  respeciing  the  science  of  medi- 
cine, as  there  was  respecting  those  of  law  and  theology, 


SCIENTIFIC    AXD    POPULAR   EDUCATION.  199 

among  the  early  inhaljitants  of  New  England,  that  most 
strange  and  awful  chapter  in  its  liistory  which  records  the 
storv  of  the  Salem  witchcraft  would  be  wanting.  Tlie 
gloom  and  liorror — a  gloom  and  horror  which  could  not 
have  been  thicker  and  deeper,  if  the  world  of  evil  spirits 
had  really  been  let  loose  upon  men — that  hung  over  that 
community  like  a  black  cloud,  could  not  possibly  be  made 
to  throw  its  shadow  across  the  present  generation,  not 
surely  because  it  is  morally  better  or  wiser  than  its  holy 
fathers,  but  because  the  strange  marvels  of  animal  organi- 
zation, and  nervous  excitement,  have  been  traced  to  causes 
orifjinatinc:  in  that  "  God  who  is  liirht,  and  in  whom  there 
IS  no  darkness  at  all." 

2.  It  is  the  business  of  the  jurist  to  study  the  principles 
of  law,  the  science  of  justice.  This  science  stands  beside 
that  of  religion,  and  Jias  very  profound  and  close  affinities 
with  it.  So  very  nearly  are  these  two  sciences  connected, 
that  history  shows  that  where  clear  and  correct  views  of 
the  one  have  prevailed,  clear  and  correct  views  of  the 
other  have  also  prevailed.  In  proportion  as  a  community 
is  possessed  of  a  deej)  sense  of  the  sacred  nature  of  justice, 
it  is  possessed  of  a  correspondingly  profound  sense  of  the 
solemn  nature  of  religion. 

The  cause  of  this  lies  in  the  fact  that  justice,  which  is 
the  substance  and  staple  of  law,  is  the  most  fundamental 
of  all  fundamentals,  whether  the  being  of  the  Creator  or 
of  creation  is  contcinplated.  Justice  is  the  deepest  of  all 
the  "deej)  things  of  God,"  underlying  the  whole  Ciodhead, 
and  constituting  the  equilibrium  of  the  Divine  character. 
Even  mercy,  an  attril)ute  which  is  sometimes  supposed  to 
be  tlie  very  contrary  of  justice,  an<l  in  necessary  incom- 
patibility with  it,  dei'ives  lioiu  it  its  very  essential  luiture 
— its  mercifulness.  Mercy  shows  its  distinguishing  final- 
ity, its  real  peculiarity,  ordy  in  the  light  and  Ihuacof  law; 


200  SCIENTIFIC   AND   rOPULAR   EDUCATION. 

for  no  man  has  ever  known  and  felt  the  niorey  of  God, 
until  he  has  first  known  and  felt  what  God  might  in  jus- 
tice do  untt)  him.  Again,  the  idea  of  justi(^e  is  a  eonstitu- 
ent  of  man's  being,  and  if,  owing  to  his  fall  and  corrup- 
tion, the  positive  sense  of  jnstice  is  often  slumbering,  the 
negative  side  of  the  idea,  the  sense  of  injustice,  of  being 
wronged,  is  one  of  the  quickest  and  keenest  of  which  he 
is  conscious. 

For  these  reasons,  the  science  of  law  is  no  trivial  or 
superficial  science,  but  strikes  its  i-oots  down  into  that 
solemn  world  of  holiness  and  righteousness,  with  which 
every  man  b}'  creation  is  connected,  either  for  weal  or  woe, 
according  to  the  relation  which  his  spirit  shall  be  found 
to  sustain  to  it  in  the  day  of  judgment.  If,  therefore,  the 
spirit  of  law  and  the  sense  of  justice  are  deep  and  pervad- 
ing in  society,  the  truths  of  religion  will  be  more  fully 
apprehended,  and  its  duties  will  be  more  likely  to  be 
esteemed  paramount,  than  would  be  the  case,  if  a  lawless 
and  unjust  spirit  were  al)road.  By  being  reverential 
towards  civil  law,  man,  in  so  far,  becomes  reverential 
towards  Divine  law ;  for  it  is  a  power  ordained  of  God, 
and  the  feeling  towards  that  whicli  is  ordained  transfers 
itself  to  Him  who  ordains.  Tlie  doctrines  of  religion 
make  their  wav  far  more  easily  throuo;!!  a  law-reverino: 
and  law-abiding  people,  than  through  a  disorganized  and 
disorganizing  mass,  held  together  by  no  right  sentiment 
of  any  sort,  by  no  just  tie,  civil  or  political. 

Such  being  the  fact,  it  is  evident  that  tlie  legal  profes- 
sion, if  deeply  penetrated  and  pervaded  by  the  spirit  of 
law  and  justice,  is  a  most  important  instrument  in  the 
arrangements  of  Providence,  for  working  out  the  well-be- 
ing of  the  state  and  the  improvement  of  mankind  at  large. 
By  means  of  the  study  of  the  principles  of  justice,  and  ; 
the  performance  of  legal  business,  law  is  constantly  kept 


SCIENTIFIC    AND   POPULAR   EDUCATION.  201 

before  tlie  public  mind,  and  its  spirit  is  more  or  less  per- 
meating society.  The  mind  of  the  people  is  made  solemn 
in  the  process,  and  bettei*  prepared  to  receive  the  truths 
and  principles  of  the  Christian  religion,  to  which  great 
remedial  and  saving  svsteui  of  truth,  all  other  systems 
should  be  subservient  and  preparatory. 

3.  And  this  brings  ns  to  the  third  of  the  three  profes- 
sions M^hose  foundation  is  laid  by  colles-iate  education — 
the  clerical.  The  worth  of  this  profession  cannot  be  over- 
estimated, if  we  take  into  account  the  importance  of  the 
science  upon  which  it  rests,  the  opportunity  it  has  of  get- 
ting the  popular  ear,  and  the  perfecting  influence  which 
it  is  capable  of  exerting  upon  society. 

The  science  which  is  the  subject-matter  of  the  clerg}^- 
man's  investigation  and  exposition  is  that  of  religion.  It 
must,  necessarily,  be  matter  of  consciousness,  because  its 
principles  are  practical  as  well  as  theoretic,  and,  therefore, 
in  order  to  their  thorough  apprehension,  require  entrance 
as  much  into  the  practical  heart  as  into  tlie  speculative 
head.  The  principles  of  this  science  are  addressed  to  the 
highest  faculties  of  tlie  human  soul  and  provide  for  its 
well-being  during  the  infinite  portion  of  its  existence. 
They  therefore  run  deep  and  reach  out  wide,  and  both 
directly  and  indirectly  affect  the  whole  individual,  the 
whole  state,  the  whole  race.  Heligion,  cither  as  a  power 
of  salvation  or  condemnation,  seizes  eveiy  rational  being 
with  a  grasp  never  to  be  shaken  off,  and  having  nuide  an 
entrance  to  his  joy  or  anguisli,  is  never  to  be  expelled. 
If  his  wliole  l>eing  is  brouglit  into  sweet  harmony  with  its 
laws  and  truths,  he  dwells  in  heaven  ;  if  his  whole  being 
is  alienate  from  its  j)urity  and  holiness,  it  still  i-eniains, 
because  it  must,  since  he  is  rational,  and  he  dwells  in 
hell. 

licligion,  as  its   ctyniol(»gy  denotes,  is   the  great  bond 
0* 


302  SCIENTIFIC   AND   POPULAR   EDUCATION. 

M'hich  is  to  hold  the  rational  creation  together  and  to  God. 
There  is  no  other  bond  of  such  strength  and  extent.  All 
the  other  ties  that  bind  finite  spirits  together  derive  their 
permanent  jxnver  from  this  great  vinculum,  and  if  its 
Author  should  suffer  it  to  be  broken,  the  primitive  mate- 
rial chaos  would  be  but  a  faint  emblem  of  the  disorder  and 
ruin  that  would  reign  in  the  intelligent  universe.  And 
especially  would  man  be  the  sufferer,  in  such  a  tremen- 
dous catastrophe ;  for,  cut  loose  from  all  the  restraints 
which  natural  and  more  especially  revealed  religion  im- 
pose, the  unchecked  depravity  of  a  fallen  race  would 
bring  it  into  awful  dissension  and  collision  with  itself. 

Religious  principles  are  therefore  the  most  important 
of  all.  In  the  Divine  idea  and  plan,  all  other  knowledge 
is  to  derive  its  vigor  and  life  from  them,  and  they  are  in- 
tended to  run  through  all  the  individuals  and  all  the  insti- 
tutions of  the  human  race.  Throuixh  the  arts  and  throuo-h 
the  sciences,  through  the  laws  and  the  legislation,  through 
the  manners  and  the  customs,  through  the  thoughts  and 
the  opinions,  through  the  individual  life,  the  domestic  and 
social  life,  the  political  life — in  fine,  through  all  the  im- 
mense material  embraced  in  the  whole  being  and  action 
of  mankind,  this  pure  and  mighty  power  is  intended  to 
stream. 

But  not  only  is  the  clerical  profession  important  because 
of  the  magnitude  of  the  science  upon  which  it  is  founded, 
it  is  also  important  because  of  the  opportunity  given  to  it 
for  getting  the  attention  of  man.  By  Divine  appointment, 
every  seventh  day  of  human  life  is  given  to  this  profes- 
sion, that  it  may  have  a  hearing.  Wherever  the  Christian 
religion  goes,  be  it  into  civilized  or  savage  nations,  the 
herald  of  Christianity  has  a  set  time  to  proclaim  its  doc- 
trines, which  is  as  regular  in  its  coming  as  the  rising  of 
the  sun. 


SCIENTIFIC    AND    POPTLAR    EDUCATION.  203 

This  dedication  of  a  seventh  part  of  human  life  to  the 
hearing  of  Christian  truth  is  one  of  those  many  perma- 
nent arrangements  of  Divine  Providence  that  exert  mighty 
influences  M'ithout  observation.  We  may  say  what  we 
will  of  the  power  of  the  press,  and  the  rapidity  of  com- 
munication, and  all  the  other  engines  of  modern  times  for 
influencing  and  impi'oving  mankind,  there  is  no  instru- 
mentality which,  for  the  kind  and  degree  of  its  influence 
upon  society,  is  to  be  compared  with  the  stated  preaching 
of  the  Sabbath  day.  Think  of  the  nature  of  the  truths 
preached  and  of  the  magnitude  and  solemnity  of  the  conse- 
quences connected  with  their  reception  or  rejection,  and 
then  remember  that  throufjh  the  leiio;th  and  breadth  of 
this  land,  and  of  all  Protestant  lands,  in  thousands  of 
churches,  millions  are  listening  to  the  preacher  ;  that  the 
principles  of  religion,  even  when  they  do  not  effect  a 
saving  lodgment  in  the  heart,  yet  give  vigor  and  clearness 
to  tlie  intellect :  that  from  these  churches  and  conirrea-a- 
tions,  a  strong  and  restrainiui;  influence  is  contiiiuallv 
going  off  and  diffusing  itself  through  that  portion  of 
society  which  does  not  place  itself  within  hearing  of 
Divine  truth  ;  and  moreover  remember  that  this  does  not 
occur  once  every  year,  but  once  every  week,  and  estimate, 
if  possible,  the  amount  of  influence  exerted  by  t]ie 
clerical  profession  upon  the  permanence  and  progression 
of  society. 

AVe  have  thus  briefly  considered  the  business  and  inllu- 
ence  of  the  three  professions,  and  it  must  be  evident  to 
every  reflecting  mind,  as  we  turn  I)ack  to  their  connec- 
tion with  scientific  in  distinction  froin  practical  education, 
and  their  oi-igin  in  the  higher  literary  institutions,  that 
BU(;h  education  is  invaluable,  and  such  institutions  are  in- 
disj)cnsablc.  The  decay  and  destruction  of  tin;  higher 
literary  institutions  involves  the  decay  and  destruction  of 


204  SCIENTIFIC    AND   POPULAR   EDUCATION. 

scientific  knowloflij^e,  and  of  professional  life,  instruction^ 
and  influence.  It  must  be  apparent  even  to  the  most 
Buperlicial  observer,  that  the  removal  and  want  of  a  phy- 
sician, a  lawyer,  and  a  clerii^yman,  in  a  particular  town 
would  work  disastrously  upon  both  its  temporal  and  ex 
ternal  interests.  Cut  off  from  all  connection  with  profes- 
sional life  and  influence,  disease  and  the  still  more  dread 
ful  fear  of  disease  would  ravage  it ;  not  having  the  fear 
and  reverence  of  law  before  their  eyes,  because  they  have 
not  its  expounder  and  representative  in  the  midst  of  them, 
a  cruel  injustice  would  rule  in  the  breasts  of  the  physi- 
cally strongest,  as  milimited  as  the  selfishness  of  the 
human  heart;  and  with  no  one  to  preach  the  truths  and 
offer  the  consolations  of  the  Cliristian  religion,  the  popu- 
lation would  become  more  brutal  than  the  brutes,  because 
the  wants  of  man  would  be  unsupplied.  If  all  this  is 
apparent  to  a  su}>erflcial  glance,  what  will  he  see  who 
glances  wide  and  deep,  over  and  through  a  whole  common- 
wealtli  destitute  not  only  of  the  system  of  liberal  learn- 
ing, but  of  those  institutions  and  classes  of  men  whose 
business  it  is  to  perpetuate,  improve,  and  diffuse  it  ? 

The  result  then  to  which  we  arrive  is,  that  only  by  the 
maintenance  and  improvement  of  scientific  education  can 
even  the  popular  intelligence  of  the  present  age  be  pre- 
served. This  lias  its  root  and  life  in  that  more  profound 
wisdom  which  is  slowly  evolved,  from  age  to  age,  by  the 
scientific,  the  liberally  educated  mind ;  which  in  the 
phrase  of  Milton,  is  "  the  result  of  all  his  considerate  dili- 
gence, all  his  midnight  watchings,  and  expense  of  palla- 
dian  oil."  And  those  institutions  whose  proper  ofiice  it  is 
to  impart  this  education  are  not  an  accidental  and  un- 
necessary, but  an  organic  part  of  state  institutions,  and 
should  no  more  be  torn  off  alive  and  bleeding  from  the 
body  politic,  than  any  other  members  should  be.     The 


SCIENTIFIC   AND   POPULAR   EDUCATION.  205 

■vrhole  population  has  an  interest  in  their  preservation,  be- 
cause they  have  an  interest  in  the  preservation  of  courts 
of  justice,  of  legishitive  assemblies,  of  the  pulpit  and 
church  of  God.  The  solid  well-being  of  a  commonwealth 
depends  on  them.  Their  first  founders  on  this  continent 
were  the  Puritans,  and  they  were  among  the  earliest  of 
the  rock-foundations  laid  by  those  wise  men.  The  whole 
sound  growth,  the  whole  healthy  development  of  IS^ew 
England,  has  been  directly  coimected  with  their  existence 
and  influence.  Our  benevolent  and  learned  physicians, 
our  judicious  and  calm-ej^ed  jurists,  our  serious  and 
thoughtful  clergy,  have  been  trained  up  in  them.  And, 
Anally,  they  have  ever  been  great  defences  against  the 
downward  tendencies  of  human  nature  when  left  to  itself, 
bv  cherishing  in  the  public  mind  that  conservative  vener- 
ation for  law  and  order,  and  intelligence,  and  morality, 
which  is  the  best  of  all  preparations  for  the  reception  of 
the  saving  doctrines  of  the  Christian  religion. 


INTELLECT  [JAL  TEMPERANCE.* 


GEXTLEilEN  : 

Tou  have  invited  me  to  address  you  upon  a  subject 
which,  in  its  widest  extension,  is  closely  connected  with 
the  true  cultivation  of  man.  Temjperance,  in  the  ancient 
and  fnl]  meanin<^  of  this  word,  must  enter  as  a  pervading 
element  into  the  whole  of  human  development,  if  it  is  to 
be  rii;ht,  fair,  and  harmonious.  I  am  conscious,  therefore, 
of  the  greatness  of  the  theme  ;  and,  while  I  distrust  my 
ability  to  handle  it,  I  feel  confidence  when  I  remember 
that  if  in  any  way  it  should  happen  to  come  before  your 
minds  in  the  clearness  of  its  own  light,  and  in  the  fulness 
of  its  own  power,  it  would  exert  an  influence  which  you 
could  not  resist.  I  am  encouraged,  when  I  remember 
that  I  may  be  the  means  of  rousing  your  minds,  and  of 
impelling  you  to  the  contemplation  of  a  subject  which,  if 
Been  in  all  its  relations,  and  felt  in  all  its  force,  would 
have  a  great  effect  uj)on  the  course  of  your  discipline. 

Tiicre  are  two  Greek  words  that  are  translated  by 
the  one  word,  temperance.  The  one  signilies  a  right 
mixture  ;  a  due  comljination  and  minirlintr  <'f  elements. 
The  other  signifios  to  l)e  strong;  to  iiave  control.  The 
corresp(7nding  Latin  word,  which  has  been  transferred  to 
our  language,  has  primary  reference  to  time,  and  thus  to 

*  A  discourHO  at  tho  UnivcTHity  of  Vermont,  April  .'tO,  184-1. 


208  INTELLECTUAL   TEMPKRANCE. 

Hinitnti'on  and  restraint  within  appointed  bonnds.  Theso 
dillerent  words  indicate  tliat  the  (ireek  and  the  Koman 
mind  had  one  and  the  same  general  conception,  which  it 
would  express  by  tlieni.  Tiie  idea  of  self-control  under- 
lies each  of  them,  and  according  as  this  attribute  is  seen 
in  a  different  pliasc,  a  different  word  is  employed  to 
denote  it.  Did  the  ancient  mind  behold  self-control  re- 
sultinir  in  a  riijht  comminirling  of  all  the  elements  of  the 
being ;  a  fusion  into  a  precious  amalgam  of  elements 
Avhicli,  if  separated  from  each  other,  or  blended  together  in 
M'rong  proportions,  would  be  worthless;  it  called  this  self- 
control,  evKpaaia.  Again,  if  it  viewed  self-control  as  result- 
ing in  inward  strength,  and  in  endowing  the  being  with  a 
power  over  the  low  and  mean  part  of  him,  it  denominated 
the  cause,  iyKpdreia.  Again,  if  it  looked  at  self-control  as 
setting  metes  and  bounds  beyond  which  the  appetites  and 
passions  must  not  go,  and  as  appointing  the  times  and  sea- 
sons when  the  several  powers  of  man  might  and  might 
not  be  operative,  it  called  self-control  temjperantia. 

Temperance  in  its  essence,  then,  is  self-control.  In  its 
widest  sense ;  in  its  application  to  all  the  parts  of  the 
human  constitution,  and  to  all  the  departments  of  human 
life  and  action  ;  it  is  evidently  a  word  full  of  meaning. 
As  denoting  a  principle  that  may,  and  ought  to  run 
through  all  the  powers  of  man,  intellectual  as  well  as 
sensuous,  making  them  its  bearer,  imparting  health  and 
vigor  to  them,  freeing  them  from  passionate  impulses, 
causing  them  to  work  orderly  and  harmoniously,  and  thus 
securing  that  beautiful  and  perfect  result  which  should 
come  from  the  development  of  a  creature  made  in  the 
image  of  the  First  Perfect  and  the  Fii-st  Fair — as  denoting 
such  a  principle  as  this,  temperance  is  one  of  those  words, 
the  knowledge  of  which,  in  the  language  of  Coleridge,  is 
of  more  value  than  to  know  the  history  of  a  campaign. 


DfTKLLECTTJAL   TEMPERANCE.  209 

Tlie  entrance  of  this  principle  of  self-control  into  the 
material  part  of  man,  and  its  efKciency  in  the  subjection 
of  the  appetites  of  the  body,  have  been  almost  exclusively 
dwelt  upon,  especially  in  our  own  time.  And  this  fact 
shows  that  even  in  his  efforts  at  self -improvement,  man  un- 
consciously reveals  his  moral  ignorance  and  degi'adation. 
The  very  fact  that  men  have  so  generally  contented  them- 
selves with  the  subjection  of  the  appetites  and  passions  of 
the  body,  and  have  not  striven  to  control  the  more  refined 
and  more  dangerous  passions  of  the  mind  and  heart,  evin- 
ces that  man  is  not  naturally  inclined  to  aim  at  the  ideal, 
and  to  reach  after  absolute  perfection.  Not  that  what 
has  been  done  should  have  been  left  undone,  but  that 
which  has  been  left  undone  should  have  been  done.  Man 
ought  not  to  be  subject  to  his  eating  and  drinking,  and  ho 
ought  not  to  be  a  slave  to  his  pride  and  ambition,  lie 
ought  not  to  rest  content  until  he  has  control  of  himself 
in  all  the  spheres  of  his  life ;  until  evei-y  power  of  his 
being  is  under  the  sway  of  law. 

Since  temperance,  in  its  extended  signification,  opens 
such  a  boundless  field  of  inquiry  and  thought ;  since  the 
})rinciple  of  rational  self-control  so  connects  itself  with  all 
that  man  is,  and  can  become ;  the  thorough  study  of  it,  and 
the  complete  apprehension  of  it,  must  be  the  work  and 
result  of  a  life,  of  an  innnortal  life.  We  shall  find 
enough  to  occuj)y  our  meditations  for  the  present  hour, 
if  we  confine  ourselves  to  one  aspect  of  the  subject.  And 
I  invite  your  attention  to:  The  influence  of  ten)2>et'ance,  or 
self-control,  uj>o>i  intcllerfaal  development. 

The  Konl  of  maji  is  a  kingdom  by  itself.  It  is  under  a 
constitution  and  laws,  like  a  state.  'J'iu!  lu-pnldicof  Plato, 
and  the  Town  of  Man-Soul  of  Ihinyan, — the  two  of  the 
race  who,  in  many  respects,  have  attained  the  deepest  in- 
eight  into  man, — are  i)roof8  that  the  closest  aiuilogy  exists 


210  INTELLECTUAL    TEMPEKANCE. 

between  the  state  and  the  mind  ;  that  what  is  tme  of  one 
may  be  transferred  to  the  other.  The  representations  of 
the  Apocalypse  ;  the  phxn,  the  architecture  and  adornment 
of  the  City  of  God  ;  are  likewise  evidence  that  the  linite 
spirit  has  its  polity  like  the  state;  that  the  purity,  stability, 
and  harmony  of  the  soul  are  best  symbolized  by  the  j)ur- 
ity,  stability,  and  harmony  of  a  realm.  And  the  study  of 
the  soul  itself  discloses  that  the  same  qualities  must  enter 
into  man's  growth  as  an  individual,  that  enter  into  his 
growth  as  a  nation,  or  a  race.  That  which  contributes  to 
the  true  well-being  of  man  individually,  piromotes  the  true 
well-being  of  man  collectively.  The  genuine  culture  of 
every  man  as  a  part,  is  the  genuine  culture  of  humanity 
as  a  whole. 

A  profound  writer  upon  the  state  mentions  permanence 
and  progression,  as  the  two  fundamental  elements  in  its 
well-being.  *  By  the  harmonious  balance  of  these  two 
counterpoising  interests,  the  state  is  to  exist  and  grow. 
The  genuine  growth  of  the  individual  mind,  in  like  manner, 
depends  upon  the  presence  of  these  two  elements.  That 
intellectual  culture  which  is  not  at  once  permanent  and 
progressive  is  ungenuine. 

The  mind  requires  conservatism  and  permanence  in  cul- 
ture, that  its  progress  may  be  steady  and  permanent.  There 
is  no  real  conflict  between  conservatism  and  progress, 
though  such  is  a  common  opinion.  No  mind  can  move  for- 
ward, except  as  it  moves  forward  from  a  preceding  position. 
It  conserves  in  order  to  progress.  The  child  learns  to 
walk,  only  after  it  has  learned  to  stand.  Men  must  hold 
on  upon  all  the  old  attainments,  in  order  to  make  new 
ones.  That  discipline  alone  is  progressive  w^hich  never 
loses  anything ;  which,  selecting  onl/  good  materials,  takes 

*  Coleridge :  Church  and  State. 


INTELT.ECTCJAL   TEl^IPEKANCE.  211 

them  up  and  incorporates  them  permanently  with  the  sub- 
stance of  the  understanding.  Tried  by  tliis  test,  how  often 
does  intellectual  culture  prove  to  be  defective.  When  the 
student  looks  back  upon  the  whole  of  his  education,  he 
finds  that  not  all  of  it  has  been  stable ;  that  not  all  of  it 
is  with  him.  He  sees,  as  he  looks  at  the  studies  of  certain 
periods  of  his  life,  that  they  did  not  contribute  to  his  per- 
manent growth;  that  certain  states  of  his  intellect,  certain 
prepossessions  for  certain  authors,  certain  moods  of  his 
mind  towards  certain  systems  of  truth  or  falsehood,  were 
not  elements  of  culture  adapted  to  the  deepest  and  highest 
needs  of  the  soul.  The  student,  when  he  has  become  well 
acquainted  with  his  past  course  of  study,  is  compelled  to 
ackiKjwlcdge,  with  sorrow,  tbat  too  nnich  of  the  food  with 
which  he  has  striven  to  satisfy  the  cravings  of  the  intellect, 
did  not  become  organic,  did  not  turn  into  flesh  and  blood, 
did  not  prove  to  be  a  means  of  vitalization,  but  was  rejected 
by  the  mind,  when  it  had  recovered  itself  from  its  momen- 
tary intoxication,  as  not  nourishing  the  principle  of  its  life. 
That  is  a  happy  scholar,  too,  who,  as  he  hjoks  into  his  mind, 
finds  that  l)y  its  innate  vigor  it  has  entirely  purged  out 
the  poison,  and  has  rid  itself  wholly  of  the  bad  effects  of 
such  a  process.  That  student  shoidd  be  a  grateful  being, 
who  can  say  that  no  one  of  the  periods  of  student-life 
has  left  a  deleterious  influence  behind  it;  a  deleterious 
influence  that  is  "felt  in  the  blood  and  felt  -dlouix  the 
heart." 

Every  scholar  should  aim  to  cultivate  the  inlellcct  in 
such  a  manner  that  the  culture  shall  be  right,  and  therefore 
shall  stay  with  liim.  No  element  of  knowledge  ought  to 
be  appropi-iated  iiv  the  mind  that  ought  not  to  become 
a  part  of  the  mind  ;  an  immortal  jmit  of  Jiii  innnortal 
mind.  The  characteristics  of  the  discipline  shonhl  be 
such   as    to    permit  of  its  going   along  wilh  tlie  per.soH, 


212  INTELLECTUAL   TEMPERANCE. 

throng-h  the  wliole  of  his  endless  existence  as  a  rational 
bein<r.  Is  that  to  be  called  culture  Avhich  does  not  last? 
which,  like  the  dry  bark  of  the  tree,  is  to  be  thrown  off 
peiiodically  ?  Docs  a  mood  of  the  intellect,  a  prejudice  of 
the  mind,  which  is  shallow  because  it  has  been  awakened  by 
an  unworthy  object,  which  endui-es  but  for  a  brief  time, 
and  i>jivcs  place  to  another  as  shallow  as  itself,  contribute 
anything  to  permanent  and  genuine  education?  Does 
that  mental  application  which  affords  no  food  for  profound 
thouij-ht,  and  rouses  none  of  the  ori^-inal  and  fundamental 
powers  of  the  man,  deserve  the  name  of  study  ?  Do  the 
iieeting  and  shifting  notions  and  opinions  that  come  and 
go  and  go  and  come,  in  some  periods  of  our  life,  deserve 
the  name  of  discipline?  Do  they  awaken  that  which  is 
deepest  in  the  mind?  Do  they  make  an  entrance  into 
''  that  place  of  understanding  which  is  hid  from  the  eyes 
of  all  living,  and  kept  close  from  the  fowls  of  the  air"? 
These  vaporous  clouds  whicii  brush  across  the  sky  do  not 
stir  the  blue  depths  of  the  ether  ;  they  have  no  influence 
in  purifying  the  "ancient  heavens,"  that  they  may  "be 
fresh  and  strong," 

Progression  is  self -evidently  a  necessary  element  in  in- 
tellectual discipline.  By  i:)rogression  is  not  meant  the 
mere  accumulation  of  facts,  the  mere  aggregation  of  in- 
formation, but  the  steady  increase  of  intellectual  power,  the 
constant  evolution  of  that  energy  which  is  latent  in  every 
human  mind.  The  life-power  by  whicli  the  mind  is  to 
progress  is  within  it,  and  he  who  most  industriously  and 
boldly  draws  upon  it,  while  he  nourishes  it  with  all  good 
learning,  \vill  make  the  farthest  advance.  Intellectual  prog- 
ress is  the  gradual  unfolding  of  all  the  mental  faculties; 
the  development  of  the  vitality  of  tlie  mind.  Hence,  those 
who  have  made  the  greatest  advance  in  mental  discipline, 
and  have  contributed  most  to  the  progress  of  the  race,  have 


INTELLECTUAL   TEMPEKANCE.  213 

been  distinguished  for  their  ability  to  draw  npon  the 
native  force  of  their  own  intellects. 

True  progression  in  mental  discipline  is,  therefore,  inti- 
mately united  with  permanency  of  cultivation.  The  one 
cannot  be  without  the  other ;  the  one  nourishes  the  other. 
When,  on  the  one  hand,  the  mind  is  acquiring  a  cul- 
ture that  has  its  abidinor  seat  in  its  most  fundamental 
powers,  it  is  advancing  tlie  development  of  these  powers ; 
and  this,  we  have  seen,  is  the  definition  of  mental  prog- 
ress. And  when,  on  the  other  hand,  the  mind  appro- 
priates only  those  elements  which  by  nature  are  adapted  to 
its  growth,  and,  like  a  tree,  carefully  rejects  all  those  which 
do  not  permit  of  a  solid  and  vital  assimilation,  its  culture 
is  permanent. 

And  here,  again,  I  appeal  to  the  student's  consciousness 
upon  this  point.  As  he  looks  into  his  intellect,  to  see 
wliether  it  has  made  true  progress  in  all  its  career,  he 
is  mournfully  conscious  that  the  fulness  of  its  inher- 
ent power  has  by  no  means  been  brought  out  by  culture. 
The  consciousness  of  weakness,  and  the  distrust  of  his  own 
nn'nd,  are  most  generally  caused  by  the  sense  of  unfaith- 
fulness, and  the  lack  of  thoroughness  in  self-training.  It 
is  indeed  true,  that  tliev  are  sometimes  the  result  of  a 
praisewoithy  humility,  especially  when  the  mind  stands  in 
front  of  the  immense  problems  of  human  life  and  destiny  ; 
yet  even  in  this  case,  the  scholar  can  say:  "When  lam 
weak,  then  am  I  strong  ;  though  I  distrust  myself,  I  liavc, 
nevertlielcss,  a  calm  confidence."  Happy  is  that  schohir, 
who,  as  he  looks  within,  can  say:  "I  am  all  tiiat  I  (;oidd 
j)OssibIy  be,  at  tliis  stage  of  n)y  intellectual  growth  ;  my 
powers,  at  this  period  of  my  existence,  could  ii"!  have 
been  more  fully  uiifold(;d  than  they  are;  I  ;iiii  conscious 
of  an  inward  energy  that  has  its  root  and  ground  in  a  cul- 
tivation that  has  always  been  pcrmaneiil  and  progrestjivc." 


214  INTKIXECTUAL   TKMrERANCE. 

r>lessed  is  that  student,  who,  at  any  and  every  stage  of  his 
life  can  say:  "T  have  always  nurtured  ray  mind  with  its 
proper  food  ;  I  have  never  weakened  its  force,  for  a  mo- 
ment even,  by  food  not  convenient  for  it  ;  I  have  never 
pt(^l>pod  the  sprinc:  of  its  living  impulse  ;  it  has  constantly 
had  a  free  and  pure  play." 

Having  thus  seen  that  permanence  and  progression  are 
essential  elements  in  true  intellectual  discipline,  and  hav- 
ing brietly  noticed  their  characteristics  and  relations  to 
each  other,  it  will  be  easy  to  see  that  their  existence  is  im- 
possible, urdess  the  mind  is  under  the  sway  of  the  princi- 
ple of  self-control ;  unless  the  scholar  obey  the  injunction 
of  the  apostle :  "  Giving  all  diligence,  add  to  your  knowl- 
edge temperance." 

Any  one  who  attentively  watches  the  workings  of  his 
mind  soon  becomes  aware  that  it  has  tendencies  to  way- 
ward, Htful,  and  ])assionate  movements.  Its  energy  does 
not  always  go  forth  in  an  even  flow,  and  its  powers  do  not 
always  work  in  a  manner  proportioned  to  their  relative 
worth.  The  fancy  often  rules  the  reason ;  the  power  of 
irregular  and  lawless  association  often  overcomes  the  power 
of  methodical  and  orderly  thought ;  and  hours  that  ought 
to  have  brought  up  a  mass  of  solid  and  pure  truth,  from 
the  deep  mines  of  the  spirit,  construct  nothing  but  day- 
dreams and  air-castles.  There  is,  indeed,  no  agent  so 
wayward,  and  yet  so  mighty  in  the  use  of  its  power,  as 
the  human  mind.  AVhcn  its  energy  has  ceased  to  be 
under  the  influence  of  that  self-government  which  a  man 
is  obligated  to  exercise  over  his  entire  being,  it  works  with 
an  absolute  intensity.  There  is,  for  the  thoughtful  ob- 
server, no  sight  more  terrific  than  the  vision  of  an  intel- 
lect expending  the  fulness  of  its  immortal  vigor  upon 
wrong  objects,  and  putting  forth  its  supernatural  power 
lawlessly. 


INTELLECTUAL   TEMPERANCE.  215 

This  waywardness  and  lawlessness  of  mind,  this  intel- 
lectual intemperance,  is  utterly  incompatible  with  genu- 
ine discipline.  Tliere  can  be  neither  permanence  nor  pro- 
gression in  a  culture  of  this  kind.  Such  workings  of  the 
intellect  rack  and  wear  it.  This  convulsive  and  unnat- 
ural use  of  mental  power  has  ruined  the  noblest  minds ; 
minds  strong  and  stable  in  their  natures  ;  minds  which  it 
took  a  lifetime  to  ruin.  But  when  the  human  intellect 
is  under  this  principle  of  self-control,  and  when  it  meekly, 
and  constantly,  and  wholly  surrenders  itself  to  its  actu- 
ation, it  is  developed  rightly  and  grows  beautifully.  For, 
this  self-government,  this  temperate  restraint,  if  traced  to 
the  fountain,  will  be  found  to  flow  "  fast  by  the  oracle  of 
God."  It  is  a  principle  alive  with  the  breath  of  Law,  and 
instinct  with  that  Heason  which  is  the  parent  of  order, 
harmony,  and  beauty,  both  in  the  realm  of  nature  and 
the  realm  of  spirit.  The  scholar  who  submits  to  it  will 
be  freed  from  those  wa^'ward  impulses,  and  passionate 
movements,  to  which  we  have  seen  the  mind  has  a  natural 
tendency.  Like  the  great  power  of  gravitation  in  nature, 
this  power,  if  all  in  every  part  of  the  soul,  will  bespeak 
its  presence.  It  will  reveal  itself  by  harmony,  by  sym- 
metry, l)y  regularity  of  mental  action ;  in  a  word,  by  all 
the  characteristics  of  genuine  cultivation. 

There  are  several  results  of  this  intellectual  temperance, 
which  still  further  enforce,  and  illustrate,  what  has  been 
said  respecting  the  permanent  and  progressive  discMpline 
of  the  mind. 

The  scholar  who  has  control  over  In's  intellect  possesses 
tiie  power  of  inethodtad  thouf/ht,.  By  this  is  meant  the 
ability  t(j  suiTcndcr  tlw;  mind  to  the  guidance  ;inil  actu- 
ation of  its  highest  law.  When  we  examine  the  laws  of 
mental  action  that  are  within  us,  wc  find  that  some  are 
imnietiiodical  an<l  in-r-giilar  in  their  operation,  and  that  if 


216  INTELLECTUAL   TEMPERANCE. 

we  yield  our  minds  to  their  impulse  they  produce  no  solid 
ami  ahidiiii!;  thoiiglit.  The  fiuicy  and  the  law  of  assof.i- 
ation  include,  pcrliaps,  the  substanee  of  these  lower  laws 
of  mental  action,  and  every  one  knows  that  he  who  habit- 
ually surrenders  himself  to  the  guidance  of  his  fancy,  and 
M'ho  floats  along  supinely  upon  the  current  of  tlie  vain 
images,  the  obscure  feelings,  and  the  dreamy  sensations 
that  are  called  forth  b}''  the  power  of  involuntary  associ- 
ation, is  an  inefficient  day-dreamer,  and  incai)able  of 
manlv  thought. 

There  is  a  higher  law  than  these,  which  is  the  true 
regent  of  the  mind.  There  is  a  part  of  us  which  demands 
truth,  and  not  unsubstantial  fancies ;  wliich  yearns  after 
eternal  verities,  and  not  airy  nothings;  which  strives  to 
stop  the  flow  of  immethodical  and  fanciful  association, 
and  to  cause  the  true  Ilippocrene,  the  inexliaustible  foun- 
tain of  methodical  thought,  to  gush  forth.  There  is  a  part 
of  us  Mdiich  checks  the  wanderings  of  the  intellect,  and 
seeks  to  lead  it  into  the  path  of  reason  and  law — that 
"  path  which  no  fowl  knoweth,  and  which  the  vulture's 
eye  hath  not  seen."  There  is  a  law  of  mental  action 
which,  if  obeyed,  introduces  logic;,  clearness,  profundity, 
and  truth  into  the  mental  operations. 

The  power  of  methodical  thinking,  as  I  have  remarked, 
is  the  ability  to  surrender  the  mind  entirely  and  continu- 
ously to  the  actuation  of  this  its  higher  law.  It  is  an  ability 
which  no  scholai",  who  knows  the  meaning  of  it,  dares  say 
that  he  possesses  in  absolute  perfection.  It  is  an  ability 
which,  by  the  mass  of  professed  students  even,  is  pos- 
sessed in  a  very  imperfect  degree.  It  is  an  ability  which, 
when  it  exists  in  a  high  degree,  imparts  a  force  to  the  in- 
tellect that  is  almost  superixuuian,  and  to  the  workings 
of  which  no  limits  can  be  set.  If  the  power  of  method- 
ical, scientific,  concatenated  thought  once  becomes  deeply 


INTELLECTUAL   TEIMPERANCE.  217 

seated,  and  a  fixed  habit  in  a  mind,  an  eternal  culture  and 
an  eternal  progress  have  begun  in  it.  All  the  fine  intellec- 
tual power  of  the  race  has  come  from  this  power ;  all  the 
reason  and  truth  which  the  human  mind  has  evolved  in 
past  ages  own  it  as  their  parent.  The  musical  tiTith  of 
Plato,  the  solid  truth  of  Bacon,  the  sober  trutli  of  Ilookei', 
and  the  lofty  truth  of  Howe,  all  own  it  as  their  father. 

But  that  discipline  which  enables  the  mind  to  keep 
upon  the  track  of  pure  truth,  and,  in  the  phrase  of  Bacon, 
to  "hound"  the  nature  of  it,  of  necessity  cultivates  it  in 
a  genuine  manner.  Truth  is  the  aliment  and  the  element 
of  the  mind,  and  if,  by  any  pi-ocess,  the  mind  is  enabled  to 
live  by  it  and  in  it,  it  will  grow.  Think  how  your  intel- 
lect would  have  unfolded,  if  the  whole  past  course  of 
your  study  had  been  a  train  of  deep,  methodical  contem- 
pL'ition  ;  if  you  had  never  allowed  your  mind  to  expend 
its  energies  in  a  desultoi-y,  involuntary  way ;  if  all  its 
activity  liad  been  deliberate,  voluntary,  and  ever  referring 
to  the  true  end  of  the  scholar's  being — the  attainment  of 
absolute  verity!  Think  of  the  results  tliat  would  have 
come  from  such  a  disc,ij)liiie.  How  completely  master  you 
would  be  over  your  intellect ;  how  easily  and  yet  how 
mightily  you  could  control  its  power ;  what  a  grasp  you 
would  have  upon  the  legitimate  objects  of  human  knowl- 
edge ! 

Germany,  the  laiul  of  scientific  thought,  affords  an 
astonishinfr  instance  ol  the  llli^■ilt,  1  had  almost  said 
the  omnipotence,  arising  from  tlio  siil)ji'clion  of  the  intel- 
lect to  the  law  of  method.  Whatever  jiulgnu-nt  may  be 
passed  upon  tiie  various  systems  of  German  ]»liilos(»phy, 
no  one  can  deny  that  they  exiiii)it  a  depth,  ii  height,  a 
breadth,  and  a  rounded  completeness  of  system  th:it 
betoken  ;i  marvellous  j)o\ver  of  consecutive;  ihoughl,  and 
more,  porhajts,  than   any  othei'   plu'MdUiena  in  litcraiy  his- 


218  INTELLECTUAL   TEMPERANCE. 

lory,  manifest  the  boundless  energy  inhering  even  in  the 
finite  mind.  Look,  for  example,  at  that  system  in  which 
the  speculative  intellect  of  the  race  seems  to  have  reached 
its  culmination — the  system  of  Ilegel.  See  how  wonder- 
fully the  power  of  systematic  thought  works,  and  what  a 
mighty  power  of  construction  it  possesses.  See  how,  by 
its  su]>ernatural  magic,  the  system  rises  like  St.  Peter's 
cathedral,  with  a 

"  Vastness  which  gi'ows,  but  grows  to  harmonize ; 
All  musical  in  its  immensities." 

Now,  this  power  of  concatenated  thinking  results  from  the 
temperate  restraint  which  the  mind  has  acquired  over 
itself.  It  has  gained  the  ability  to  subject  those  fitful  and 
desultor}^  movements  of  which  I  have  spoken,  to  the  law 
of  method  ;  to  make  all  the  intellectual  powers  move  on 
harmoniously  towards  the  attainment  of  a  prescribed  end. 
Although  it  is  true  that  mere  system-building,  of  itself, 
contributes  little  more  to  the  right  discipline  of  man  than 
mere  castle-building  (for  the  products  of  the  speculative 
understanding  contribute  no  more  to  the  practical  life  of 
the  spirit  than  the  products  of  the  fancy),  yet  when  we 
consider  the  influence  and  tendency  of  this  scientific  habit 
of  the  mind,  we  find  that  it  has  worth,  and,  in  the  end, 
promotes  a  permanent  and  progressive  culture. 

And  this  naturally  suggests  a  second  result  of  intellec- 
tual temperance.  The  scholar  who  can  control  his  mind, 
BO  that  it  can  thiidc  in  a  long,  iniinterrupted  train,  will 
have  it  brought  into  contact  with  nohle  and  ennobling 
ohjects.  No  man  can  follow  the  leading  of  a  contem- 
plative and  methodical  intellect,  without  coming  into 
great  and  sublime  regions,  where  there  are  grand  and 
lofty  objects  of  vision.     The  reason  of  this  lies  in  the  fact 


INTELLECTUAL   TEMPERANCE.  219 

that  truth  is  infinite,  and  has  a  living  connection  existing 
between  all  its  parts.  The  mind  that  has  touched  the 
borders,  if  truly  progressive,  must  go  to  the  centre  of  the 
land.  One  truth  is  connected  with  all  truth.  The  method- 
ical mind,  therefore — the  mind  which  will  not  and  can- 
not be  diverted  by  trifling  and  alien  objects — will  be  led 
on  and  on  in  au  endless  progression.  One  truth  seen 
lX)ints  to  the  next ;  one  relation  of  truth  to  other  truths 
suo-o-ests  another  and  still  another  relation  to  other  and 
&till  other  truths,  and  the  mind  thus  launches  further 
and  further  into  the  infinite  ocean  of  thouo-lit.  And  as 
it  "  goes  sounding  on  its  dim  and  perilous  way,"  it  will 
see  sublime  and  animating  scenes.  It  will  come  into 
new  hemispheres  with  new  constellations  ;  it  will  sail 
amid  the  dazzlini"-  Mitter  and  the  thunderino-  crash  of  the 

rj    CD  o 

icy  ocean  ;  it  will  plough  up  the  phosphoric  light  of  the 
tropic  seas.  And  even  when  the  student  is  led  on  by  a 
merely  speculative  interest ;  even  when  he  does  not  seek 
truth  tliat  he  may  become  better  by  it,  but  solely  that 
he  may  know ;  he  derives  some  genuine  cultivation 
imconscionsly.  He  learns,  at  least,  to  hold  his  mintl  to 
one  subject,  and  to  think  in  trains.  To  resume  our 
comi)arison,  as  the  intellect  is  passing  through  the  many 
worlds  of  truth  into  which  concatenated  thinkini'-  hriuirs 
it,  and  is  skirting  their  borders,  infiuences  from  them 
will  come  oft  to  it. 

"As  when  to  them  who  sail 
Beyond  the  Capo  of  irojio,  and  now  aro  ])a.sHcd 
Mozambic,  oif  at  nca  northeast  wii.ils  blow 
Sabasan  odors  from  the  spicy  shore 
Of  Araby  the  blcBs'd." 

Even  the  merely  speculative  tliiidccr  feels  some  of  the 
inlluencc  which  tlio  great  objects  of  practical  thought,  and 


220  INTELLECTUAL   TEMPERANCE. 

practical  faith,  exert  upon  the  spirit.  Ilciice,  such  think- 
ers as  Spinoza  and  Ilcgel,  though  utterly  eiToneous  in 
their  pantheistic  premise  and  their  pantheistic  conclusions, 
di)  nevertheless  exhibit  a  loftiness  of  scholastic  character, 
and  a  sedateness  of  mental  habitude,  that  cannot  exist  in 
a  man  who  leads  an  unthinking  and  frivolous  life.  They 
seem  to  have  acquired  from  the  mere  atmosphere  of  the 
temple  some  of  the  solemnity  of  the  true  worshipper. 

This  tendency  of  methodical  thought  to  bring  the  intel- 
lect into  contact  with  noble  objects  is  most  certainly  a 
soui'ce  of  good  culture.  The  mind  takes  its  tone  and 
character  from  the  tliemes  of  its  contemplation,  and  if 
these  are  noble  and  lofty,  the  mind  will  become  so  like- 
wise. Even  those  high  scientific  problems  which  are  ab- 
stract and  cold  for  the  Jieart,  and  cannot  furnisli  all  the 
cultivation  which  an  immortal  being  needs,  are  infinitely 
w^orthier  than  those  low  and  trivial  subjects  upon  which 
llie  mind,  unless  restrained,  will  naturally  expend  its 
force.  If  the  scholar  is  marked  by  intellectual  temper- 
ance ;  if  he  has  acquired  the  power  of  orderly  thought, 
and  the  ability  to  keep  his  intellect  in  one  train  of  reflec- 
tion, he  will,  as  a  matter  of  course,  be  conversant  with 
great  subjects.  It  is  only  a  fanciful  and  lawless  applica- 
tion of  the  mind,  which  can  be  content  with  the  vanities 
of  literature.  That  intellect  which  is  self-controlled,  and 
master  of  itself,  will  feel  a  degradation  in  an  immethodi- 
cal  and  desultory  use  of  its  power,  and  will  not  be  at 
liome  except  among  high  truths  and  themes. 

I  turn,  now,  to  notice  briefly  two  other  qualities  which 
are  at  once  signs  and  results  of  genuine  mental  culture, 
and  are  also  intimately  coiniected  with  intellectual  self- 
control.  I  mean  freedom  and  enthusiasm.  These  terms 
are  often  misunderstood.  They  are  often  associated  with 
lawlessness  and    disorder.      Of   course    if   this   be    their 


miELLECTUAL    TEMPERANCE.  221 

nature,  they  cannot  be  signs  and  results  of  self-control. 
This  is  not  their  natnre.  Freedom,  in  its  true  meaning, 
is  self-snbjection  to  law ;  and  hence  holiness  is  the  only 
true  freedom,  and  the  Holy  Spirit  is  the  only  "  free 
spirit."  *  Enthusiasm  is  defined,  by  an  eminent  thinker, 
to  be  the  enlar(i:;ement  and  elevation  of  soul  that  arise 
fi'om  the  intuition  of  ultimate  principles,  f  If  these  are 
the  correct  definitions  of  freedom  and  enthusiasm,  it  is 
evident  that  thev  can  exist  in  an  intellectonlv  when  it  is 
self -governed,  and  that  they  will  exist  necessarily,  if  it  is 
self -governed.  That  scholar  who  rules  his  mind,  and  thus 
checks  its  wavwarduess,  is  a  free  scholar.  As  that  man 
is  possessed  of  a  bold,  courageous,  physical  freedom,  who 
has  self-possession,  and  can  at  all  times  keep  in  check  the 
timid  instincts  of  the  physical  nature,  so  that  scholar  is 
free  in  the  higher  sense,  who  has  habitual  control  over  the 
instincts  of  the  intellect.  For  self-control  is  for  the  mind, 
what  self-possession  is  for  the  body.  And  the  student 
who  is  under  law  is  also  full  of  enthusiasm.  The  deepest 
aiid  most  joyful  enthusiasm  issues  from  the  calm  intensity 
of  that  contemplation  which  is  the  result  of  discipline. 
All  lofty  feeliug  in  the  soul  springs  from  moods  that  are 
deep;  tliat  are  fed  by  great  principles  and  profound 
meditation  ;  even  as  the  deepest  green  of  the  leaf,  and  the 
stateliest  growth  of  the  trunk,  shoot  up  from  roots  that 
strike  far  down  into  a  strono;  black  mould.  Genuine  en- 
tliiisiasm  in  the  scliolar  is  the  infallible  sign  of  genuine 
and  thorough  discipline. 

J  cannot  but  direct  your  earnest  thouglit  to  these  two 
attributes  of  the  di.scii)lincd  schohir.  Freedom  and  <'ii- 
thusiasm  arc  tlie  bloom  am!   llower  of  the  scholar's  life 

•  PH.ilin  li.  12. 

f  Coleridge  :  StatcKman'a  Manual,  Works.  I.,  I'.V.':  IlaiixiiH'  Edition. 


222  INTELLECTUAL   TEMPERANCE. 

There  is  no  vision  so  frladdeiiiiiij!-  to  tlie  heart  of  tlic  lovor 
of  letters  as  the  vision  of  an  intellect  under  self-control, 
rejoicing  in  the  consciousness  of  power  and  fi'eedom,  and 
rushing  onward  with  a  subdued  yet  deep  enthusiasm 
through  the  inliuite  realm  of  truth.  There  is  enjoyment, 
likewise,  in  the  possession  of  these  intellectual  (jualities. 
Schiller  has  asserted  that  the  hijifhest  eniovmenl  is  the 
freedom  of  the  mind,  in  the  living  play  of  all  its  powers. 
This  is  not  the  highest  enjoyment,  for  there  is  a  higher 
jo}^  than  that  of  the  intellect ;  but  it  is  the  highest  enjoy 
ment  of  the  intellect.  And  it  is  joy,  to  feel  the  gush  and 
play  of  intellectual  power  ;  to  be  conscious  of  the  living 
currents  of  a  mind  healthy  and  free,  under  the  principle 
of  self-control.  But  these  qualities,  contributing  so  greatly 
to  the  progress  and  happiness  of  the  scholar,  nnist  be 
earned  by  a  thorough  discipline.  Like  all  things  great  and 
good,  they  are  the  fruit  of  struggle,  and  of  self-surrendry 
to  law. 

Thus  have  w^e  seen  that  intellectual  temperance,  the 
rational'  self-control  of  the  intellect,  secures  a  permanent 
and  progressive  culture  that  manifests  itself  in  the  power 
of  methodical  thought,  in  an  habitual  intercourse  with 
noble  and  ennobling  objects  of  reflection,  and  in  intellec- 
tual freedom  and  enthusiasm. 

The  principles  wdiich  have  been  advanced  can  be  sub- 
stantiated by  an  appeal  to  literary  liistory.  And  I  iiivite 
you  to  look  at  the  glorious  ages  of  English  literature,  for  a 
proof  that  intellectual  self-control  secures  genuine  intel- 
lectual discipline.  Go  back  into  the  sixteenth  and  seven 
teentli  centuries,  and  consider  the  Bacons,  the  Hookers, 
the  Raleighs,  the  Miltons — those  masculine  births  of  the 
masculine  ages  of  England.  The  scholai",  as  he  goes  back 
to  these  men  and  their  times,  feels  himself  to  l)e  in  a  se- 
date age,  an  age  of  reason,  and  law,  anc"  intellectual  self 


INTELLECTUAL   TE^rPERANCE.  223 

government.  These  were  men  of  thorongh  self-restraint, 
and,  therefore,  men  of  methodical  thought,  of  cahn, 
rational  insight  into  philosophy,  statesmanship,  and  divin- 
it}'.  If  we  happen  to  name  these  great  names  in  the 
same  hreath  with  the  Byrons  and  Rousseaus  of  modern 
days,  we  feel  that  tliere  is  a  difference  in  kind.  The  so- 
briety of  intellect,  the  mental  abstinence,  and  the  solidity 
of  culture  in  the  former,  are  of  no  kith  or  kin  with  that 
waywardness  of  intellect,  that  litfuhiess  of  mental  action, 
that  entire  absence  of  stable  discipline,  and  that  ntter  in- 
capability of  lofty  thought,  which  characterize  the  latter. 
The'  great  men  whom  I  have  named  did  "give  all  dili 
gence  to  add  to  their  knowledge  temperance."  Their 
knowledge  was  permeated  by  temperance.  Temperate  in 
their  i)rinciples,  and  temperate  in  their  application  of 
them  ;  temperate  in  their  opinions,  and  temperate  in  their 
enunciation  of  them  ;  temperate  in  their  feelings,  .ind 
temperate  in  their  exhibition  of  them ;  all  ages  will  ever 
resort  to  them  for  wise,  prudent,  and  profound  thoughr. 
All  aa-es  will  ever  a-o  to  them  for  their  own  thorough  dis- 
cipline,  and  will  look  upon  their  minds  as  the  most  re- 
markable examples  of  solid,  sober,  mental  cultivation. 
The  greatness  of  their  strength  is  not  owing  to  theii-  natu- 
ral superiority  over  all  men  since  their  day.  Great  men 
liave  been  among  us,  as  great  by  nature  as  they.  But  it 
is  owing  to  the  calm  temperate  control  which  they  pos- 
sessed over  their  minds  ;  to  the  |)atient,  methodical  habit 
of  their  intellects.  Their  whole  long  lives  were  a  perma- 
nent and  ))rogi-eKsive  discipline.  Their  growth  was  slow, 
pure,  and  solid,  like  that  of  tlu;  l-ritish  oak.  hi  the 
phrase  of  Macon,  they  are  "  tin;  liciculeses  and  not  th(» 
Adonises  of  literature."  Ami  they  were  also  free  and 
enthusiastic  intellects.  Nowhere  do  wo  iind  more  l)old 
and  unshackled  thought  than   in  the  age  from   l-'lizabeth 


224  INTELLECTUAL    TEMPERANCE. 

to  Cliarlcs  the  Second,  and  yet  no  a^ije  has  developed  more 
of  absolute  truth  in  the  hio;her  domains  of  knowlcdire. 
These  men  were  animated  hy  the  freedom  and  lofty  en- 
thusiasm of  truth  and  reason,  and  hence  they  moved, 
even  amon^  the  deepest  and  most  solemn  themes,  "  as 
with  the  steps  of  the  gods." 

I  have  thus.  Gentlemen,  directed  your  attention  to  the 
relation  of  temperance,  the  ancient  evKpaaia  and  iyKpuTeia, 
to  mental  discipline.  I  have  selected  this  particular 
aspect  of  its  influence,  because  it  addresses  itself  to  the 
sj-nipathics  and  aspirations  of  true  scholars.  I  know  that 
if  the  lofty  purpose  and  the  high  resolve  of  the  genuine 
student  are  in  your  breasts,  your  thoughts  will  gather 
around  the  great  subject  of  self-control,  and  you  M'ill  have 
an  earnest  longing  that  your  intellects  may  be  under  its 
actuation.  I  know  that  the  mere  interests  of  the  intellect 
are  sufficient  to  awaken  a  desire,  that  this  faculty  may 
develop  itself  under  the  influence  of  a  principle  that  will 
secure  to  it  a  permanent  and  progressive  culture,  and  will 
swell  it  with  a  free  enthusiasm.  I  have  also  dwelt  upon 
this  part  of  the  great  subject,  because  it  presents  what 
should  be  the  high  and  worthy  aim  of  the  scholar,  and 
because,  if  by  any  means  you  may  be  prevailed  upon  to 
reach  after  it,  the  low  and  grovelling  propensities  of  the 
animal  part  will  be  more  likely  to  slumber.  Not  that 
liigh  intellectual  discipline  necessarily  and  infallibly  se- 
cures temperance  of  body.  The  past  history  of  literary 
men  shows  that  it  does  not.  But  the  tendency  of  such 
self-control  over  the  intellect  is  to  produce  self-control 
over  the  sense.  I  have,  therefore,  felt  that  every  aspi- 
ration after  true  intellectual  discipline,  that  may  be 
roused  in  you,  has  some  influence  to  draw  you  away 
from  the  intoxicating  bowl.  I  feel  that  if  you  are  able  to 
soar  in  the  high  regions  of  pure  intellectual  cultivation. 


INTELLECTU-VL    TIOIPERANCE.  225 

and  of  serene  tIion<^ht,  you  will  find  it  harder,  in  the  hour 
of  temptation,  to  descend  and  grovel.  I  know  that  if  you 
are  capable  of  the  clear  pure  jo}'  arising  from  the  intuition 
of  great  truths,  you  will  have  less  and  less  inclination  for 
the  delirious  and  mad  joy  that  steams  up  from  the  wine-cup 
and  the  revel. 

But  in  all  that  I  have  said,  I  have  remembered  that  the 
intellect  is  but  a  part,  and  an  inferior  part,  of  man ;  and 
that  its  actuation  by  the  principle  of  self-control  is  no 
more  the  chief  end  of  man,  than  is  the  subjection  of  the 
passions  of  the  body.  There  is  a  part  of  us  higher  than 
the  intellect ;  a  part  whereby  we  are  capable  of  aspira- 
tions and  feelings  far  purer  and  loftier  than  those  of  the 
intellect — the  reverence,  the  love,  and  the  adoration  of  the 
Eternal  God ;  a  part  whereby  we  are  capable  of  a  disci- 
pline more  deep,  more  boundless,  and  more  sublime  than 
that  of  the  mind — the  discipline  of  the  cherubim  and 
serai)liim.  And  I  have  also  rememl)ered,  that  upon  the 
cherishing  of  these  higher  aspirations,  and  the  progression 
of  this  higher  discipline,  depends  your  success  in  com- 
pletely controlling  both  the  intellect  and  the  sense.  All 
power  comes  from  ab(jve,  and  goes  downward.  It  never 
comes  from  beneath  and  goes  upward.  The  organic  con- 
trols the  inorganic;  the  vital  force  subdues  the  chemi- 
cal ;  the  voluntary  governs  and  uses  the  animal.  It  is 
in  vain,  in  any  of  the  kingdoms,  to  attempt  to  bring  up 
power  from  below.  l>eiiciicent  and  really  contrc)lling 
force,  descends  from  something  that  is  higher,  to  some- 
thing that  is  lowei-.  In  order,  therefore,  that  your  mind 
and  body  may  be  subjectcil  pi'ilVjctly  to  self-control,  your 
heart  must  first  vitalize  the  principle,  and  send  it  down 
to  them  warm,  plastic,  and  vivifying.  Vou  nnist  not  sup- 
j)ose  that  you  can  attain  an  absolute  Hclf-govcrnnKint  over 
even  the  lower  part  of  you,  unless  the  higher  part  is  also 
10* 


22G  INTELLECTUAL   TEMPERANCE. 

controlled  l;y  the  Inw  and  Spirit  of  God.  Tii  this  iK/hlor 
portion  of  your  being,  the  radical  dis(;ipline  must  bei^in. 
From  this  point  alone,  can  rational  selt-control  i-adiate  Into 
Your  cntii-e  constitution.  If  it  <i:oes  out  from  this  centre, 
you  will  ])ecome  a  thoroughly-discij)lincd,  a  holi/  being; 
for  the  principle  of  self-control  will  then  show  itself  to  be 
no  other  than  the  principle  of  religion,  and  temperance 
will  be  the  surrendering  of  the  human  spirit  to  the  IIolj 
Spirit,  of  the  luunan  will  to  the  Infinite  Will. 

I  know,  therefore,  that  if  any  scholarly  aspirations  are 
ever  awakened  in  you,  and  the  wish  ever  rises  within  to 
attain  genuine  mental  discipline,  you  will  infallibly  fail  to 
realize  them  in  a  jjerfect  manner,  unless  you  seek  aid 
from  the  Most  High.  I  know  that  your  wish  will  never 
become  your  strong  and  abiding  will;  that  you  will 
never  become  even  what,  as  scholars  merely,  you  in  your 
more  hoj^ef  ul  and  aspiring  moments  long  to  become  ;  with- 
out the  new  birth  of  the  soul.  Ours  is  a  fallen  spirit,  and 
we  shall  never  acquire  perfect  sway  over  any  or  all  of  its 
powers,  unless  we  go  through  the  great  process  of  re- 
generation. I  might  refer  you,  if  you  needed  proof  of 
this,  to  those  great  men  whom  I  have  already  named. 
They  were  religious  men.  Even  those  of  them  who  min- 
gled much  with  the  world,  and  were  much  absorbed  in  the 
distracting  cares  of  the  state,  preserved  a  religious  temjier 
and  tone.  They  felt  that  the  power  of  the  Invisible  must 
actuate  them,  if  they  were  to  keep  their  robes  white  ;  if 
they  were  to  succeed  in  attaining  a  complete  self-govern- 
ment. Hear  the  "  Student's  Prayer,"  of  Lord  Bacon : 
"  This  also  we  humbly  and  earnestly  beg,  that  human 
things  may  not  prejudice  such  as  are  divine  ;  neither  that 
from  the  unlocking  of  the  gates  of  sense,  and  the  kind- 
ling of  a  greater  natui'al  light,  anything  of  incredulity  or 
intellectual  night  may  arise  in  our  minds,  towards  divine 


IXrELLECTrAL   TEMPERANCE.  227 

mysteries.  But  rather,  tliat,  l)y  our  mind  thoroughly 
cleansed  and  pui-ged  from  fancy  and  vanities,  and  yet  sub- 
ject and  perfectly  given  np  to  the  divine  oracles,  there 
may  be  given  unto  faith  the  things  that  are  faith's."  Hear 
Milton  speak  of  his  great  work,  as  one  "  not  to  be  raised 
from  the  heat  of  yiouth,  or  vapors  of  wine,  like  that  which 
Hows  at  waste  from  the  pen  of  some  vulgar  amourist,  or  the 
trencher  fury  of  a  rhyming  parasite  ;  nor  to  be  obtained 
from  the  invocation  of  dame  Memory  and  her  syren  daugh- 
ters; but  by  devout  prayer  to  the  Eternal  Spirit  who 
can  enrich  with  all  utterance  and  knowledge,  and  sends 
out  his  seraphim  with  the  hallowed  fire  of  his  altar,  to 
touch  and  purify  whom  he  pleases."  * 

I  would,  then,  that  this  sul)ject  might  lead  you,  in  the 
end,  to  the  Fountain  of  law  and  righteous  self-control.  I 
would  that  you  might  not  aim  merely  at  temperance  of 
body,  or  temperance  of  mind,  l)ut  might  seek  the  highest 
and  most  dithcult  of  all  attainments,  a  temperate  will ,' 
one  that  is  at  one  with  the  law  of  God.  If  this  be  in  you 
and  abound,  it  will  ])C  easy  to  overcome  the  blandishmonta 
of  the  sense,  and  the  waywardness  of  the  intellect.  The 
will  is  the  main  part  of  you  ;  and  if  you  knew  the  mean- 
ing of  this  power;  if  you  apprehended  the  i'lihicss  of  its 
life,  the  inexhaustibleness  of  its  fountains  and  reservoirs, 
and  felt  that  all  heaven  with  its  harmony,  or  all  hell  with 
its  lawlessness,  will  come  out  of  it,  according  as  it  is  actu- 
ated l)y  the  Spirit  of  God,  or  by  the  spirit  of  Self,  you 
would  earnestly  seek  its  renewal  in  the  Divine  Image. 

II  ;dl  your  powers  be(;ome  pervaded  by  Holy  Will,  and 
it  invigorates  and  atttuates  them,  you  will  become  a  calm, 
a  self-controlled,  and  a  lianin'nioiis  being.  The  ])assions 
of  the  body,  and  the  tnore  subtle  passions  of  the   intellect 

*  Milton  :  Rouhoii  of  (.'huroh  Government,  Jlook  II. 


22S  INTELLECTUAL   TEMPERANCE. 

and  heart  will  gradually  disappear.  You  will  gradually 
acquire  stability,  profuiulity,  purity,  aud  loftiness  of  culti- 
vation, and  your  soul  will  exhibit  tluit  most  beautiful  of 
all  growths — the  development  of  innnortal  energy  under 
Law. 

"  So  build  we  tip  the  being  that  we  are  ; 
Thus  deeply  drinking'  in  the  soul  of  things 
We  shall  be  wise  perforce  ;  and  while  ins[)ired 
By  choice,  aud  conscious  that  the  will  is  free, 
Shall  move  unswerving,  even  as  if  impelled 
By  strict  necessity,  along  the  path 
Of  order  and  of  good.    Whate'er  we  see, 
Whate'er  we  feel,  shall  tend  to  feed  and  nurse, 
By  agency  direct  or  indirect, 
Our  faculties  ;  shall  fix  in  calmer  seats 
Of  moral  strength,  and  raise  to  loftier  heights 
Of  divine  love,  our  intellectual  soul." 


THE  PURITAX  CHAEACTER  * 


TuE  seed,  or  principle,  of  a  man's  character  is  in  exist- 
ence before  him.  lie  is  born  with  it.  This  proves  its 
ti'ansniission  from  progenitors,  and  this  proves  its  priority 
to  birth.  In  order,  therefore,  to  a  full  comprehension  of 
individual  character,  we  must  go  back  to  the  species  of 
which  the  individual  is  a  part,  A  man's  sinful  character, 
for  example,  cannot  be  understood,  unless  it  is  referred  to 
the  apostasy  of  msLuHnd.  This  was  a  free  act.  The  indi- 
vidual, consequently,  thouc^h  deriving  his  character,  is  re- 
sponsilde  for  it.  The  two  conceptions  of  inlieritanco  and 
guilt,  by  this  explanation,  are  not  incompatible ;  and  while 
insisting  upon  personal  accountability,  not  only  for  partic- 
ular actions,  but  for  the  general  disposition  from  which 
they  proceed,  we  need  not  deny  the  connection  of  this 
latter  with  what  has  gone  before — with  the  sin  of  the  race. 

These  remarks  are  true,  measurably,  of  the  character  of 
a  nation.  Every  national  character  is,  in  an  important 
sense,  the  result  of  what  has  preceded  it.  It  is  not  the 
result  in  such  a  sense  that  the  nation  is  irresponsible  in 
possessing  it  ;  but  in  the  sense  that  former  ages  nnd 
nations  exerted  a  great,  though  not  a  necessitating  inllu- 
cncc  u[)on  its  origin  and  growtli.  All  nations  are  united 
together  ;  erpially  receiving  intluence  from  the  j)ast,  and 
etpuilly    tran.smitting  it  to  the   future.       D(;es  a    nation 

*  Reprinted  from  the  ChriHtiiin  OliBorvatory,  March,  1817. 


230  TIIK   PURITAN   CHARACTER. 

form  a  settled  national  character,  entirely  independent  of 
the  past?  A  new  star  sonictimes  aj^pears  in  the  sky, 
shining  with  its  own  light,  differing  from  all  other  stars  in 
glory,  and  seemingly  indcj)endcnt  of  all  the  rest  of  the 
liost  of  heaven.  Bnt  not  so  with  national  character.  It 
does  not  emerge  into  existence  suddenly  and  independ- 
ently ;  hut  is  a  sknv  formation,  in  great  measure  shaped 
and  tinged  by  former  ages,  institutions,  and  characters. 

These  remarks  are  true  of  the  Puritan  character  ;  and. 
before  proceeding  to  describe  its  prominent  trait,  let  us 
consider  it  in  its  origin,  and  its  relation  to  what  preceded  i'. 

The  main  elements  of  the  Puritan  character  are  Old- 
English.  They  came  down  from  the  early  periods  of 
En^lf^iid's  national  existence.  The  erreat  Alfred  was 
essentially  a  Puritan.  That  trait  which  led  him  to  devote 
one-third  of  his  time  to  religion,  and  the  remainder  of  it 
to  a  severe  and  strict  discharge  of  the  duties  devolving 
upon  him  in  the  course  of  a  reign  strewed  all  through 
with  dangers,  obstacles,  and  discouragements,  is  inti- 
mately allied  to  that  which  made  the  Pilgrims  so  deeply 
religious  and  so  strictly  dutiful  men.  This  character  coik- 
timied,  l)ut  underwent  some  modifications,  through  the 
influence  of  the  Norman  invasion,  and  far  more  through 
the  influence  of  advancing  civilization.  The  primitive 
English  character,  thus  modified,  continued  tlirough  the 
times  of  Elizabeth,  producing  great  men  in  divinity, 
philosophy,  statesmanship,  and  poetry.  After  this  period 
it  becan  to  be  withdrawn  from  the  mass  of  the  nation 
into  a  narrower  circle.  The  nation,  as  a  body,  ceased  to 
be  animated  by  the  vigorous  and  pure  life  of  their 
fathei-s  ;  and  the  result  was  growing  superstition  and  un- 
spiritiiality  in  religion,  and  increasing  despotism  in  gov- 
ernment. But  there  dia  remain  an  imier  circle,  in  which 
the  old  spij-it  dwelt  and  reigned.     Driven  from  the  ex- 


THE   PUKITAN   CHARACTER.  231 

trenilties,  the  life  retreated  to  tlie  heart ;  and  in  the  age 
of  the  first  Charles,  the  old  English  character,  of  which 
Alfred  was  the  type,  existed,  in  a  most  pure  and  dense 
form,  in  a  small  and  despised  portion  of  the  English  peo- 
ple called  the  Puritans.     Like  Wordsworth's  dalesmen, 

"Pure  livers  were  they  all,  austere  and  grave, 
And  fearing  God  ;  the  very  children  taught 
Stem  self-respect,  a  reverence  for  God's  word, 
And  an  habitual  piety,  maintained 
With  strictness  scarcely  known  on  English  ground." 

Thus  was  the  Puritan  character  a  thin 2:  of  slow  and 
solid  formation.  It  did  not  start  into  existence  in  an 
instant.  Its  beginnings  must  be  traced  to  the  union  of 
the  best  elements  of  tlie  British  with  the  best  elements  of 
the  Saxon  nature ;  and  its  development  is  the  history 
of  the  spiritualizing  influence  of  Christianity  upon  these 
two  excellent  and  prime  ingredients,  for  eight  hundred 
yeai-s.  It  grew  with  the  growth,  and  strengthened  with 
the  strength,  of  the  nation.  In  times  of  trial  and  danger 
it  gave  clearness  to  the  head,  determination  to  the  will,  and 
nerve  to  the  arm,  of  the  best  of  the  people.  It  was  ever 
on  the  side  of  liberty  and  law,  of  learning  and  religion. 
As  it  went  along  through  the  mutations  of  ages,  it  became 
more  and  more  jmre  from  foreign  particles.  Gradually 
narrowing  the  limits  of  its  existence,  by  choosing  for  its 
residence  the  very  soundest  heads  and  the  very  ])ur('st 
hearts,  in  the  age  of  Charles  the  First  it  exhibited  aa 
noble  traits  as  ever  have  been  soon  in  human  beings. 

England  made  the  term  "  rnrltau"  a  rci)i-oai;h,  and 
took  sjiecial  pains  to  e.vpcl  from  it'-df  this  ex(;ell('nt  char- 
acter. Degenerate  England  drove  ont  the  I'nritans.  They 
sailed  over  the  ocean  which  Kej)arates  the  two  worlds. 
They  put   the   Atlantic    betweon   them  aiul  llicir  father- 


232  TIIK    rUKlTAN    CIIAKACTEK. 

liind  ;  and    then  calmly,  proudly,  piously  deposited  the 
elements  of  a  great  empire  on  the  western  hemisphere. 

AVe  now  inqnire,  What  is  the  prominent  trait  of  the 
Puritan  character?  The  fundamental  trait  of  the  Puri- 
tan character,  upon  which  all  its  excellencies  rest,  and  by 
which  even  its  faults  are  to  be  explained,  is  sjnrituality  of 
inind.  By  spiritualit}'  of  mind,  we  do  not  now  mean 
what  is  denoted  by  the  theological  delinition  of  the  phrase. 
Most  oii  the  Puritans  were  regenerated  men,  and  were 
gpiritually-minded  in  the  New-Testament  sense  of  the 
term.  But,  apart  from  this  characteristic,  which  results 
only  from  the  new  birth,  there  was  a  peculiarity  in  the 
Puritan  mind  which  perhaps  cannot  be  denoted  better 
than  by  the  term  "spirituality." 

In  accommodating  the  word  to  our  present  purpose,  we 
mean  by  it  that  disposition  which  leads  its  possessor  to 
believe  in  the  invisible  world,  and  to  refer  to  it,  both  in 
his  thoughts  and  actions.  Though  man,  by  creation,  is  a 
spiritual  being,  and  is  destined  to  S2">end  the  inlinite  part 
of  his  existence  in  the  unseen  world,  yet  he  knows  but 
little  about  that  world,  and  it  engages  but  little  of  his 
thought.  Man  generally  has  no  sense  of  the  reality  of  that 
sphere  which  is  to  be  his  eternal  dwelling-place.  Sin  is 
the  chief  cause  of  this  ignorance,  and  insensibility.  If 
man  were  pure  of  heart,  eternity  would  not  be  a  dim  or 
undiscovered  country.  It  would  have  substantial  reality 
for  him,  and  he  would  think  and  act  with  reference  to  it, 
as  the  most  permanent  of  all  realities.  But,  besides  this 
main  and  universal  cause  of  man's  ignorance  of  the  spirit- 
ual world,  there  is  a  minor  one  arising  from  the  mental 
constitution.  We  sometimes  meet  a  person  thoughtful 
by  nature,  serious-minded,  and  inclined  to  contemplate 
the  mvsterious  and  invisible.  Unseen  thino-s  have  more 
reality  to  him  than  to  the  thoughtless  and  frivolous  man 


THE   PUKITAN   CHAKACTER.  233 

He  naturally  believes  that  there  are  more  things  in  the 
universe  than  can  be  seen  by  the  eye,  or  touched  by  the 
hand.  Such  a  man  differs  from  the  mass,  by  this  dispo- 
sition to  find  reality  behind  the  visible  and  material.  It 
is  not  difhcult  for  him  to  believe  in  the  supernatural.  He 
is,  in  this  sense,  spirituallv-mindcd,  and  predisposed  to 
believe  in,  and  think  about,  unseen  things. 

The  same  difference  of  constitution  appears  in  nations, 
as  well  as  in  individuals.  We  find  some  nations  naturally 
inclined  to  believe  in  spiritual  and  unseen  realities,  while 
others  are  disinclined.  Tlie  former  do  not  need,  or  make 
use  of,  the  visible  symbol,  but  rest  satisfied  with  tlie  idea  ; 
while  tlie  latter  find  it  difficult  to  apprehend  the  idea  at 
all,  and  need  and  use  a  inaterial  sign,  by  which  it  shall  be 
signified.  The  former  are  spiritual,  the  latter  material,  in 
their  modes  of  thought.  It  has  been  observed  by  writers 
upon  this  subject,  that, as  a  general  rule,  this  difference  of 
mental  constitution  follows,  and  accords  with,  the  differ- 
ence of  climate.  The  nations  of  the  torrid  zone  are  sen- 
suous in  their  conce[)tions,  while  those  of  the  cold  zones 
are  spiritual.  For  this  reason,  the  paganism  of  the  south 
of  p]urope  was  very  different  from  that  of  northern 
Europe.  The  southern  heathen  liad  gods  many  and  lords 
nuxny  ;  but  he  must  see  them  and  handle  them,  in  (udcr 
t<^  believe  in  their  reality;  and  therefore  he  carved  nu- 
merous id(jls,  and  buildcfl  many  temples,  in  wliidi  his 
divinities  should  dwell.  The  northern  heulhrn  had  icwcr 
gods,  and  could  believe  in  their  reality  wilhout  the  aid  of 
the  visible  form.  Jle  hewed  no  idol,  and  he  erected  no 
temple;  he  worshipped  his  (li\inity  in  spii-it,  bcncatli  the 
open  sky,  in  the  free  air.  The  keen  vigoj-  inlnscil  inldliio 
ho(]y  by  the  northci-n  winter,  and  the  inllucnccs  whic^U 
rained  down  fr«»m  the  cold  northern  sky,  glittering  with 
intensely  bright  stars,  and  gleaming  and  fiashiug  with  the 


234  THE  ruRiTAN  character. 

northern  Hi^lita,  seem  to  liavc  induced  spirituality  of 
thouglit  and  conception  in  the  northern  lieatlien  ;  while 
the  languid  air,  and  enervatini^  inlhiences,  of  the  warm 
zone,  tended  to  make  the  southern  heathen  shio:<;ish,  earthly, 
and  sensuous,  in  his  modes  of  thought. 

From  their  northern  extraction,  the  Puritans  derived 
what  we  have  styled,  in  an  accommodated  sense,  spiritual- 
ity of  mind;  or  the  disposition  to  believe  in  the  super- 
natural, the  ability  to  realize  it  w^ithout  the  aid  of  visible 
things,  and  the  inclination  to  refer  to  it  in  thought  and 
action.  This,  we  think,  is  the  ground,  and  native  princi- 
ple of  the  Puritan  character.  From  this  sprang  the 
many  virtues,  and  the  few  faults  of  the  Puritans. 

That  we  may  more  fully  apprehend  this  their  funda- 
mental characteristic,  let  ns  contemplate  it  as  we  see  its 
manifestation  in  the  three  main  relationships  of  human 
life, — the  social,  civil,  and  religious. 

1.  Every  one  knows  that  the  social  life  of  the  Puritans 
was  extremely  simple  in  its  structure.  Their  customs, 
manners,  and  habits  were  singularly  severe.  They  made 
little  of  fashions,  and  the  outward  appeudages  of  society ; 
and  that  long  list  of  modes  and  conventionalities  which 
is  the  sum  and  substance  of  much  of  modern  social  inter 
course  was  unknown  to  them.  Their  inborn  disposition 
to  believe  that  the  inward  and  invisible  is  the  substantially 
true  and  real  led  tliem,  in  their  social  relations,  to  regard, 
the  feelinifs  and  sentiments  of  the  heart,  rather  than  the 
actions  and  appeai-ance  of  the  body.  Therefore^  though 
the  social  life  of  the  Puritans  exhibits  an  exceedingly 
simple,  in  some  respects  a  bald  and  uncouth  appear- 
ance, it  would  be  a  great  error  to  deny,  that  underneath 
the  outward  appearance  there  was  a  noble,  kind,  and  gen- 
erous courtesy.  There  has  never  been  a  human  society 
in  which  there  was  mere  of  genuine  gentility,  than  there 


THE   PURITAN   CnAEACTER.  235 

was  ainoTio;  them.  The  social  charities  and  neio-hborly 
sympathies  never  liad  a  more  free  phxy  than  in  the 
Puritan  heart.  Good-\A'ill,  which  is  the  essence  of  polite- 
ness, animated  the  Pnritan  community ;  and  exliibi- 
tions  of  kindness  and  courtesy  in  that  society  could  be 
depended  upon,  as  the  manifestation  and  true  index  of  its 
spirit. 

This  state  of  society  was  the  natural  growth  of  the  dis- 
position, native  to  the  Puritan,  to  believe  lirmly  in  tlio 
unseen,  and  to  make  more  of  that  than  of  tlie  visible. 
The  neighbor  cared  little  for  the  outward  demeanor  of  his 
neighbor,  but  everything  for  his  inward  temper.  Tho 
friend  took  but  little  notice  of  the  dress  or  manners  of  his 
friend,  but  directed  a  most  keen  and  piercing  glance  to 
the  tenor  of  his  feelings.  The  citizen  paid  but  little  at- 
tention to  the  aiidible  and  outward  professions  of  his  fel- 
low-citizen, but  deemed  the  invisible  and  secret  .opinions 
of  his  mind  to  be  the  main  object  of  attention.  What 
cared  the  Puritan  for  the  mean  apparel  and  the  rustic 
manner,  if  there  were  only  an  honest,  upright,  and  kind 
heart  throbbing  in  the  bosom?  And  what  cared  tho 
Puritan  for  the  most  gorgeous  apparel  and  the  most  ])olite 
demeanor,  if  within  the  breast  there  were  nothing  but  self- 
ish indifference  and  hypocrisy  ? 

Thus,  there  grew  out  of  this  disposition  to  regard  tho 
invisible,  a  singularly  sincere  and  simple  state  of  societ3^ 
All  of  its  ari-angcmcnts  referred  to  what  is  within,  and 
unseen  by  the  material  eye.  It  is  not  denied  that  tho 
Puritans,  under  the  impulse  of  this  strong  tendency  to 
regard  the  unseen,  neglected,  in  too  great  a  degref,  to  re- 
gard what  is  seen  and  outward.  Put  this  is  always  a 
minor  fault,  ami  one  that  is  committed  only  by  a  very 
spiritual  mind.  It  is  V)otter  to  go  to  this  e.\trem(j  tiiai\  to 
the  other;  aixl   it  is  more  easy  to  reach  the  golden  mean 


23G  TJIE   rURITAN   CHARACTER. 

from  this  end  tliaii  from  the  otlier.  It  is  far  more  easy 
for  the  intensely  spiritual  man  to  cnltivate  liimself  into  a 
dne  regard  for  the  ontward  and  ap})arent,  than  it  is  for 
the  intensely  earthly  man  to  school  himself  into  a  spirit- 
ual way  of  thonii^ht.  Indeed,  it  may  be  said  of  these  two 
courses  of  cultivation,  that  the  former  alone  is  really  feasi- 
ble. Man  can  come  down  from  heaven  to  earth,  but  lie 
cannot  go  up  from  earth  to  heaven.  lie  can  fall,  but  he 
camiot  rise. 

Taken  as  a  whole,  therefore,  the  social  life  of  the  Puri- 
tans is  a  fair  and  admirable  structure.  If,  in  some  minor 
respects,  it  is  deficient ;  if  there  is  not  so  much  finish  and 
.idornmcnt  laid  out  upon  the  exterior  as  there  might  be ; 
Btill  the  great  plan  of  the  edifice  is  noble,  and  the  archi- 
tecture lofty  and  beautiful.  It  has  the  beauties  and  faults 
of  the  great  edifices  of  the  natural  world.  Like  the 
mountain,  it  rises  into  the  clear  sky  in  grandeur,  and  with 
a  beautiful  outline ;  like  the  mountain,  it  has  spots  that 
are  rugged  and  bare. 

2.  We  come,  now,  to  the  consideration  of  this  trait  of 
character,  as  exhibited  in  the  Puritan  govei'nment.  The 
principles  by  which  the  Puritans  were  guided  in  the  es- 
tablishment and  maintenance  of  government  were  in  the 
highest  degree  rational.  Those  principles  were  spiritual ; 
tliat  is,  they  flowed  from  pure  law  and  pure  reason,  and 
not  from  an  earthly  and  material  source.  The  Puritan 
felt  that  government  is  a  great  and  solemn  interest ;  that 
it  is  an  ordinance  of  God ;  that  its  organizing  princi2)les 
must  be  drawn  from  the  invisible  world,  and  that  its 
Banctions  must  come  from  heaven.  All  the  reverence  and 
fear  that  comes  down  upon  man  from  the  supernatural 
world,  he  felt,  must  be  brought  to  bear  in  upholding 
human  government.  Thus,  did  the  tendency  of  his  miiid 
lead  him  to  refer  to  the  unseen,  in  his  civil  relatioJis,  and 


THE   PURITAN    CHARACTER.  237 

to  found  government  upon  purely  rational  and  spiritual 
principles. 

Hence,  the  spirituality  of  the  Puritan  government.  As 
soon  as  we  compare  it  with  that  of  the  European  nations 
from  whose  atmosphere  the  Puritans  had  just  departed, 
we  see  a  striking  difference.  It  is  simple  in  its  structure, 
its  arrangements,  and  its  working.  The  European  mind, 
accustomed  to  a  material  and  unsj^iritual  mode  of  thought, 
because  its  faith  in  the  invisible  was  weak,  and  its  vision 
of  pure  principles  was  dim,  had  established  government 
not  mainly  upon  law  and  reason,  but  upon  forms,  prece- 
dents, arbitrary  will,  and  absolute  power.  The  structure 
of  government  in  Europe  was  complicated,  its  arrangement 
irrational,  and  its  working  exceedingly  despotic.  It  })re- 
sented  to  the  eye  of  an  observer  a  long  arra}'  of  forms 
and  ceremonies,  under  which  it  was  difficult  to  discover 
the  first  principles  of  law  and  right,  even  if  they  were 
originally  at  the  bottom,  and  l)y  which  those  principles 
were  straitened  and  hindered  in  tiieir  effectual  woi'king. 
A  philo.-ophical  observer  of  the  governments  of  Europe, 
at  that  time,  would  be  led  to  su])pose  that  man  had  cither 
entiix'ly  lost  sight  of  the  pure,  spiritual  i)rin(;iplcs  of  gov- 
ernment, or  else,  as  was  most  probaijly  the  case,  was  un- 
willing to  let  them  have  a  free  and  unhampered  operation. 
Such  an  observer  would  see  that  there  was  but  little  faith, 
among  the  nations,  in  the  great  principles  of  reason  and 
law,  and  that  the  state  depended  for  security  ui)on  tilings 
px3en  and  material  ;  upon  the  trappings  of  royalty,  the 
appendages  of  nobility,  the  pomp  and  (•ir(;umstan(rc  of 
ofKce,  the  sword  and  the  cunnoii. 

It  was  reserved  for  the  Puritans  to  found  a  govcni- 
mcnt  on  ])nre  princi]'!*'.  'J'li(;y  estiiblislicd  but  few  olHces. 
They  strip])i!d  <Mi  Iimih  governinciitiil  institutions  the 
forms  in  which   they  had   ln'cn  foi-  so  many  centuries  en 


23S  THE   PUKITAN   CIIAKACTER. 

cased,  and  let  men  see  the  steady  and  beautiful  operation 
of  just  maxims,  as  applied  to  the  regulation  of  human 
eociety.  They  were  not  afraid  to  rest  so  i^reat  a  super- 
structure as  the  national  government,  upon  what  ap[)ears 
to  the  earthly-minded  to  be  a  very  weak  and  unsafe  foun- 
dation, a  few  invisible  and  rational  principles.  They  had 
faith"  in  the  unseen,  and  knew  that  law  and  reason, 
tlu)ugh  not  visible  to  the  outward  eye,  are  full  of  "  the 
power  of  an  endless  life." 

The  more  we  contemplate  the  system  of  government 
established  by  the  Puritans,  the  more  clearly  shall  we  see 
the  native  spirituality  of  the  Puritan  mind  exhibited  in  it. 
The  disposition  to  appeal  to  what  is  within  man,  and  so  to 
subject  him  to  wholesome  restraint,  by  means  of  rational 
l^rinciples,  is  very  apparent  in  it.  Law,  in  its  pure  naked 
reality,  was  brought  before  the  inward  eye;  and  men 
obeyed  freely,  and  like  rational  freemen,  as  they  were. 
Thi'ougliout  the  whole  Puritan  commonwealth,  so  safely 
and  beautifully  did  government  do  its  perfect  work,  that 
peace  and  order  prevailed  ;  and  the  interference  of  the 
ofli(;er,  the  outward  and  visible  representative  of  govern- 
ment, was  rarely  needed.  Government  was,  in  the  best 
sense  of  the  term,  self-goverument ;  a  voluntary  subjec- 
tion of  self  to  those  great  maxims  of  reason  and  con- 
science which  are  invisible,  and  wliich  connect  man  with 
the  unseen  world  and  the  invisible  God.  Thus  did  the 
prominent  trait  in  the  Puritan  character  manifest  itself  in 
the  Puritan  government. 

3.  AVe  pass  now  to  tiie  religion  of  the  Puritans.  In 
this,  too,  we  iiud  their  fundamental  characteristic  mani- 
festing itself  with  great  power  and  intensity.  Christian- 
ity never  appeared  in  a  more  si)iritual  form,  than  it  did 
in  the  first  periods  of  the  histoiy  of  New  England.  It 
was  despoiled  entirely  of  all  in  which  it  had  been  clothed 


THE   PURITAN   CHARACTER.  239 

bj  superstition  and  fonnalism,  and  stood  out  unencum- 
bered by  rites  and  ceremonies,  a  free,  pure,  and  spiritual 
realit\'.  Xe\v  England  felt  that  God  is  a  spirit,  and  wor- 
shipped him  in  spirit  and  in  truth. 

But,  let  us  scrutinize  more  narrowly  the  different  parts 
of  the  Puritan  religion,  and  we  shall  more  clearl}'  see  their 
Tiatural  temper  exhibited  in  it.  For,  be  it  ever  remembered, 
that,  although  Christianity  is  a  living  principle  coming 
down  from  heaven,  and  is  therefore  essentially  one  and 
the  same  in  all  men,  yet  it  will  receive  some  hues  from 
the  native  traits  of  the  mind  in  which  it  takes  up  its  resi- 
dence. Christianity  in  the  French  mind,  though  not 
essentially,  yet  in  its  manifestation,  is  different  from 
Christianity  in  the  English  mind. 

The  Clu-istian  religion  })resented  a  remarkable  ap[)ear- 
ance,  when  it  lodged  itself  among  the  native  enei'gics  of 
the  Puritan  character.  Naturally  inclined  to  regard  the 
invisible  as  the  chief  reality,  and  disposed  to  make  but 
little  of  things  seen  and  material,  it  was  natural  that  the 
Puritan  shouhl  make  religion  a  matter  pertaining  mainly 
to  the  unseen  woi-ld,  and  should  strip  it,  as  far  as  possible, 
of  all  earthly  conceptions,  and  all  material  forms.  Hence, 
the  spirituality  of  their  mode  of  worship.  They  had  no 
form  of  prayer,  Init  spake  as  the  sj)irit  gave  them  utter- 
ance. Tliey  laid  no  stress  upon  postures,  but  let  the  body 
bend  luiturally  to  the  movements  of  the  soul.  They  were 
afraid,  to  a  fault,  of  devotional  nnisic  and  poetry  ;  for 
tliey  feared  lest  their  tlioughts  should  1)0  drawn  away 
from  the  j)ure  and  naked  realities  oL  unoiiicr  world. 
They  made  much  of  the  sermon,  because  they  felt  that 
truth  is  spiritual,  and  is  a  revelation  Irom  the  invisible 
God. 

Again,  if  we  consider  the  scluMue  of  docti-ine  received 
by  tlie  L'urilaiis,  we  shall  see  their  spiritual  Iriiduncy.     It 


240  THE   PURITAN   CHARACTER. 

was  strict  and  pure.  It  was  the  theolop^yof  such  spiritual 
men  as  Aucjustinc  and  Calvin.  This  thcolog)^  brings  man 
into  the  immediate  presence  of  God.  It  allows  of  no 
mediator  between  God  and  man,  except  Ilim  who  is  God- 
man.  Tlie  deity  is  thus  brouglit  into  direct  contact  with 
humanity;  heart  to  heart,  spirit  to  spirit,  life  to  life. 
Man  is  nsliered  directly  into  the  eternal  world ;  and,  in 
view  of  its  scenes  and  realities,  is  led  to  make  his  peace 
with  God,  through  the  atonement  of  God.  This  theology 
is  exceedingly  spiritual  and  soul-searching.  It  charges 
utter  sinfulness  upon  man,  convicts  and  eternally  damns 
him,  brings  him  trembling  in  his  guiltiness  to  the  foot  of 
God,  where  he  ought  to  be,  and  then  bids  him  look  up, 
to  see  if  indeed  there  may  be  mercy  for  him. 

There  have  been  milder  types  of  Cliristian  doctrine 
than  Calvinism.  There  were  such  in  the  times  of  the 
Puritans;  but  their  native  spirituality  of  mind,  among 
other  causes,  led  them  to  the  reception  of  the  strictest  and 
purest  theology  in  the  Churc^h.  They  desired  to  see  the 
plain  and  naked  truth  of  God.  It  was  their  disposition  to 
remove  all  coverings,  and  get  at  the  core.  They  did  not 
shrink  from  the  consequences  of  such  thorough  scrutiny, 
and  they  did  not  fear  the  results  of  seeing  the  bare,  con- 
Bcience-searchino;  truths  of  the  eternal  world.  Thouffh 
the  intolerable  brightness  should  blind  and  blast  them  in 
that  guiltiness  which  they  shared  in  common  with  all 
men,  they  knew  that  in  this  way  alone  would  they  be  pre- 
pared to  stand  the  fires  of  the  last  day.  Their  spirits 
obtained  no  rest,  until  they  had  known  the  worst  of  tlieir 
case,  and  the  direst  rigor  of  divine  truth.  And  when 
they  had  once  thoroughly  known  the  whole  pure  ti-nth  of 
God,  they  stood  firm.  They  could  never  again  be  moved  ; 
they  could  never  again  be  terrified.  They  were  ready, 
then,  for  the  blast  of  the  archangel's  trump,  for  the  resur- 


THE   PURITAX   CHARACTER.  24:1 

rection  of  their  own  bodies,  for  the  burning-iip  of  the 
world,  for  the  passing  away  of  the  heavens,  and  for  the 
irrevocable  sentence  of  the  final  day  of  doom. 

Thus,  possessing  naturally  a  disposition  to  slight  the 
formal  and  visible,  and  having  this  disposition  intensified 
and  energized  by  the  indwelling  presence  of  a  most 
severely  spiritual  theology,  is 'it  any  wonder  that  the  Puri- 
tans abhorred  formalism  in  reli";ion  ?  Is  it  anv  wonder 
tiiat  they  dissented,  to  the  bottom  of  their  souls,  from  all 
showy  and  seeming  Christianity  ?  What  satisfaction 
could  men  find  in  hc^Uow  rites  and  unmeaning  ceremonies, 
whose  spirits  were  hungering  for  pure  spiritual  food,  for 
the  living  word  of  God?  What  peace  could  men  find  in 
false  and  shallow  exhibitions  of  truth,  whose  consciences 
had  been  set  on  fire  by  the  clear  vision  of  the  Divine 
Law  ?  No  !  these  men  had  made  thorouMi  work  in  search- 
ing  their  own  spirits  ;  and  now,  nothing  but  the  pure  gos- 
pel could  give  them  rest.  These  men  had  looked  into  the 
other  world,  and  they  felt  that  a  formal  religion  and  a  lax 
theology  cannot  prepare  a  man  to  enter  into  its  pure,  soul- 
searching  light. 

Tiius,  by  nature,  by  education,  and  by  regeneration,  the 
Puritans  were  spiritually-minded.  That  original  trait  in 
their  character,  of  which  we  have  spoken,  reached  its 
very  heiglit  of  life  and  al)s<)lute  inteiisity  of  power, 
through  the  influences  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  In  society, 
and  in  government,  we  found  them  to  be  highly  spiritual ; 
in  religion,  m'c  iind  them  to  be  absolutely  spiritual. 

Having  thus  contcinplatod  the  prominent  trait  of  the 
Puritan  character,  it  is  readily  seen  that  all  the  excellence 
and  glory  of  New  England  must  be  directly  referred  to 
it,  as  tlieir  source.  Our  pn^scnt  comparative  Him[)licity  of 
manners  and  purity  of  social  life  must  bo  referred  to  it. 
11 


242  TIIK    rUUITAN    CirAUACTER. 

The  freedom  and  beauty  of  our  government  must  be  re- 
ferred to  it.  The  spirituality  of  our  mode  of  worship 
and  the  purity  of  our  scheme  of  religious  doctrine  must 
be  referred  to  it.  That  we  are  Protestants,  is  owing  to 
our  fathers.  That,  as  a  people,  we  dissent  from  formalism 
in  religion,  is  owing  to  their  instruction  and  jorayers. 
Burke  said  of  New  England,  when  as  a  people  it  was  still 
in  the  gristle,  to  use  his  own  phrase,  that  it  possessed  "  the 
dissidence  of  dissent,  the  Protestantism  of  the  Protestant 
religion."  *  If  that  great  statesman  could  rise  from  his 
gi-ave,  and  look  upon  us  now,  when  tlie  gristle  h<is  become 
hardened  into  bones,  well  strung  with  thews  and  thickly 
netted  with  sinews,  he  could  still  say  that  New  England 
is  largel}'  possessed  of  the  very  dissidence  of  dissent 
against  all  formalism  in  religion,  and  that  the  veriest 
Protestantism,  the  pure  defecated  essence  of  the  Protestant 
religion,  is  its  animating  life  and  its  actuating  principle. 

But,  although  we  have  reason  to  be  thank'f  nl,  that  so 
much  of  the  vigor  of  the  Puritan  character  is  still  felt  by 
us  as  a  people,  we  have  reason  to  fear  lest  that  vigor  wane 
away  and  die  out,  under  the  unfavorable  influences  to 
which  it  is  exposed.  That  vigor,  though  it  still  animates 
us,  is  not  so  intense  as  it  was  two  hundred  3'ears  ago.  We 
liave  lost  too  much  of  the  spirit  of  our  fathers.  AV^e 
have  lost  much  of  their  faith  in  invisible  things,  and  are 
greatly  engrossed  in  things  seen  and  temporal.  Luxury 
and  ease,  the  results  of  advancing  civilization  and  im- 
provement in  the  arts,  are  enervating  us.  False  princi- 
ples in  social  organization,  in  government,  and  in  religion, 
are  stealing,  like  slow  poison,  through  our  arteries.  We 
are  beginning  to  lose  the  Puritan  reverence  for  the  word 
of  God,  the  church  of  God,  and  the  sabbath  of  God. 

*  Speech  on  Conciliation  with  America. 


THE   PURITAN   CHAEACTER.  243 

It  becomes  ns,  therefore,  to  make  the  Puritan  character 
a  model  for  imitation.  AVe  ought  to  study  it,  until  we 
see  it  in  all  its  massive  strength  and  simple  beauty.  We 
ought  to  invigorate  ourselves,  by  drawing  fresh  life  from 
the  spirituality  of  our  ancestors.  Let  us  remember  that 
our  fathers  were  spiritually-minded,  and  were  greatly 
under  the  influence  of  the  other  world  ;  that  they  read 
God's  word,  kept  God's  sabbath,  and  feared  God  himself 
with  a  solemn  awe.  Their  blood  flows  in  our  veins  ;  let 
their  spirit  dwell  in  our  breasts. 


THE  AFRICAN  NATURE* 


Mu.  Pkesident  AJfD  Gentlemen  : 

On  tlie  22d  of  March,  1775,  Edmund  Burke,  pleading 
for  the  liberties  of  the  American  Colonies,  in  the  British 
House  of  Commons,  had  occasion  to  allude  to  their  marvel- 
lous growth,  as  outrunning  everything  of  the  kind  in  the 
then  past  history  of  England,  or  the  world.  In  less  than 
seventy  years,  he  said,  the  trade  with  America  had  in- 
creased twelvefold.  It  had  grown  from  a  half-million  of 
pounds  per  annum  to  six  millions — a  sum  nearly  equal  to 
the  whole  export  trade  of  England  at  the  beginning  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  This  rapid  growth,  he  continued, 
might  all  be  spanned  by  the  life  of  a  single  man,  "  whose 
memory  might  touch  the  two  extremities."  Lord  Bath- 
urst  was  old  enough  in  1704,  to  understand  the  figures 
and  the  facts,  as  thev  then  stood.  The  same  Lord  l>ath- 
ui-st  in  1775  was  a  member  of  that  parliament  before 
whom  the  great  orator  was  recnting  the  new  facts  that 
were  stranger  than  fiction,  in  order  to  waken  England  to 
a  consciousness  that  the  colonies  beyond  the  sea  were  bono 
of  her  b(;ne,  and  flesh  of  her  flesh,  and  must  be  treated 
accordingly.     Warming  from   the  gravity  of  his  tlu-mo, 

*  An  oddreHB  before  the  MuaHachuHotts  GoloaiKatiou  Society,  May  27, 


24G  TllK    AFRIOAN    NATIKE. 

and  kindling  in  soul  as  the  vision  slowly  evolved  before 
him,  he  represents  the  guardian  angel  of  the  youthful 
r>athurst  as  drawing  aside  the  curtain  of  the  future,  and 
unfolding  the  rising  glories  of  his  country  ;  and,  particu- 
larly, as  pointing  him,  while  absorbed  in  the  commercial 
grandeur  of  England,  to  "  a  little  speck  scarce  visible  in 
the  mass  of  the  national  interest,  a  small  seminal  princi- 
ple rather  than  a  formed  body,"  and  as  saying  to  him : 
"  Young  man,  there  is  America ;  which,  at  this  day, 
serves  for  little  more  than  to  amuse  you  with  stories  of 
savage  men  and  uncouth  manners ;  yet  it  shall,  before  you 
taste  of  death,  show  itself  equal  to  the  whole  of  that  com- 
merce which  now  atti-acts  the  envy  of  the  world."  * 

We  have  alluded  to  this  well-known,  but  ever  fresh  and 
fine  prosopopoeia  of  the  great  Englishman,  because  it 
spontaneously  comes  into  memory  when  one  begins  to 
read,  to  think,  or  to  speak  upon  Africa.  That  tropical 
continent  lies  nearly  as  dim  and  vague  before  the  mind  of 
this  generation,  as  the  cold  and  cheerless  America  did  be- 
fore the  mind  of  Eiiirland  when  Johnson  and  Burke  were 
boys.  With  the  exception  of  a  small  strip  of  the  Atlantic 
coast,  the  wilds  of  this  Western  world  were  as  unknown 
to  the  Englishman  of  1700,  as  the  jungles  of  Soudan  or 
the  highlands  of  Central  Africa  are  to  us.  And  yet  it 
may  be,  that  there  are  youth  of  this  generation  who  will 
live  to  see  those  dim  beginnings  of  Christianity,  of  civili- 
zation, and  of  empire,  which  are  now  scarcely  visible  on 
the  African  Atlantic  coast,  expanded  and  still  expanding 
into  vigorous  and  vital  churches,  into  strong  and  mighty 
states.  The  guardian  angel,  in  this  instance  too,  might 
with  perhaps  as  much  prol)ability  of  verification,  say  to 
the  youth  whom  he  leads  by  the  hand :  "  Young  man, 

*  Speech  on  Conciliation  with  America. 


THE  AFRICAN  NATURE.  "  247 

there  is  Afi'ica;  which,  at  this  day,  serves  for  little  more 
than  to  amuse  you  with  stories  of  savage  men  and  uncoutli 
manners ;  vet  it  shall,  before  you  taste  of  death,  take  its 
place  among  the  continents,  and  be  no  longer  an  unknown 
world." 

For,  nothing  is  more  wonderful  than  the  changes  and 
transformations  of  history.  But,  involved  as  every  pres- 
ent generation  is  in  the  great  stream,  and  whirled  along 
by  it,  it  is  not  strange  that  no  generation  of  men  are  ever 
fully  aware  of  the  strength  and  rapidity  of  their  own 
movement.  He  who  belongs  to  another  generation,  and 
looks  back,  can  sees  that  in  such  a  centurj',  and  in  such  a 
quarter  of  the  globe,  a  mighty  current  was  running.  The 
6i)ectator  always  sees  more  than  the  actor.  The  rare  pro- 
phetic mind,  also,  that  beholds  the  future  in  the  instant, 
may  foresee  and  predict  a  history  too  great  and  grand  for 
contemporaneous  belief.  The  philosophic  statesman  is 
aware  of  what  isgoino:  on  in  the  stru<::<rlino:  masses  around 
him,  and  auspicates  accordingly.  But  the  common  man,  of 
the  busy  present  time,  never  knows  the  rate  he  is  moving; 
because  he  is  liimself  absorl^ed  and  carried  headlong  in  the 
movement.  It  is  not  strange,  therefore,  that  all  hopeful 
glowing  vaticination,  in  respect  to  changes  upon  this  sin- 
smitten  planet,  is  regarded  with  distrust.  Such  anticipa- 
tions are  supposed  to  belong  to  the  poet  and  the  orator. 
They  have  no  support  in  the  data  and  calculations  of  the 
statistician  or  tlie  statesman. 

(Jailed  upi^n  then,  as  we  are  at  this  time,  to  consider 
the  present  and  ])rospective  condition  of  the  most 
wret(thed  and  unpromising  (puirter  of  the  globe,  by  the 
voice  of  that  Colonizing  Society  which  has  already  done 
more  than  any  other  single  association  lor  the  welfare  of 
Africa,  and  which  is  destined,  wc  believe,  under  that  be- 
nign Providence  which  ha.>  protected  and   blcs.-cd   it  thus 


218  TIIK    AFKIUAN    NATLKE. 

far,  to  SCO  its  own  great  itlcas  and  plans  realized  ;  called 
uix)n  to  speak  and  to  think  for  a  hundred  millions  of  our 
fellow  creatures,  by  a  small  corporate  body,  not  yet  a 
half-century  old,  and  annually  disbursing  only  a  few 
tht)nsands  of  dolhirs,  we  desire  to  assign  some  reasons  for 
believing  that  a  career  similar  to  that  of  the  British  colo- 
nies in  America,  and  similar  to  that  of  all  the  great  colo- 
nizing movements  of  the  past,  awaits  the  Republic  of 
Liberia. 

What,  then,  are  the  grounds  for  expecting  that  the 
plans  and  purposes  of  the  American  Colonization  Society 
will  be  ultimately  realized,  in  the  Christianization  of  the 
African  continent  ? 

1.  The  first  reason  for  this  expectation  is  of  a  general 
nature,  Africa  has  no  past  history.  It  is  the  continent 
of  the  future ;  for,  it  is  the  ordy  one  now  left  to  feel  for 
the  first  time  the  recuperating  influences  of  a  Christian 
civilization.  Keligion,  law,  and  letters  began  their  march 
in  Asia,  and  a  large  part  of  that  continent  once  felt  their 
influence.  From  thence  they  passed  into  Europe ;  and 
Europe  is  still  the  stronghold  of  religion,  law,  and  letters. 
AVestward  they  then  took  their  way  ;  and  the  vast  spaces 
of  the  American  continent  are  still  waiting  for  the  Chris- 
tianityand  republicanism  that  have  so  rapidly,  and  firmly, 
taken  possession  of  tliat  comparatively  small  belt  called 
the  United  States.  It  is  true  that  these  influences  were, 
for  a  time,  felt  alono;  the  northern  border  of  Africa. 
Egypt  and  Carthage  were  once  civilized ;  and  a  very 
vigorous  Christianity,  for  three  centuries,  erected  its  altar, 
and  kept  its  fires  bright,  along  the  southern  shore  of  the 
Mediterranean.  But  Egypt,  though  African  in  natui-eand 
blood,  derived  its  ideas  from  Asiatic  sources;  and  its 
place  in  history  is  Asiatic  rather  than  African.  That 
ancient  and  wonderful  pantheistic  civilization  whicli  built 


THE    AFRICAN   NATURE.  249 

Thebes  and  the  pyramids,  was  but  the  corrupted  remains 
of  a  yet  more  ancient  Asiatic  monotheism ;  as  South  tells 
us  that  "  an  Aristotle  was  but  the  rubbish  of  an  Adam, 
and  Athens  but  the  rudiments  of  paradise."  Carthage 
was  Phoenician  ;  and  when  both  Egypt  and  Carthage  were 
absorbed  into  Rome,  North-xVfrica  belonged  much  more 
to  the  European  than  to  the  properly  African  quarter  of 
the  globe.  The  great  continent,  then,  notwithstanding 
all  these  attempts  at  approach  for  thousands  of  years,  lies 
lone  and  solitary.  It  is  out  of  all  historical  connections  ; 
so  much  80,  that  the  genei'alizing  Ilegel,  after  a  very 
brief  characterization  of  it,  in  his  Philosophy  of  History, 
dismisses  it  with  the  remark  :  "  We  now  leave  Africa, 
and  shall  make  no  further  mention  of  it.  That  which 
we  understand  by  Africa  proper  is  totally  destitute  of  a 
history;  is  totally  unopened  and  undeveloped;  and  can, 
therefore,  l)e  merely  hinted  at,  on  the  threshold  of  Uui- 
Tcrsal  History."  * 

Kow,  there  is  something  in  this  fact  that  inspires  ex- 
pectation. It  may  be  vague,  but  it  is  large  and  full.  The 
mode  and  manner  may  be  left  to  conjecture,  or  imagina- 
tion ;  but  the  fact  that  one  whole  quarter  of  the  globe 
has  never  yet  been  visited  by  the  great  influences  of  reli- 
gion, law,  and  letters,  taken  in  connection  with  the  fact 
that  these  influences  are  a  part  of  the  plan  and  destina- 
tif>n  of  God  in  reference  to  the  whole  world,  aiul  the 
tohofe  human  fiimily,  lead  to  the  confident  faith  that  this 
will  not  always  be  so.  Nature,  it  was  said,  abhors  a 
vacuum.  Empty  spaces  will  be  filled  and  peopled.  His- 
tory treads  no  step  l)ackwanl.  I  lor  voice  cries,  "  Ever 
onward  !  "  as  the  guiding  Genius,  according  to  Schiller, 
continually  sounded  in  the  ear  of  Columbus  on  the  gray 


J  J,  ♦  ilrg.;i's  Wcikc,  IX.,  12:}. 


2')0  TIIK   AFRICAN   NATURE. 

waste  cf  waters,  "  Ever  westward  1  Ever  to  the  West !  " 
Who  expects  that  poj^iihition,  law,  and  manners  will  ever 
flow  hackward  again,  from  the  Alle<^lianies  or  the  Ilocky 
Mountains  ?  Who  expects  that  the  great  changes  and 
alterations  of  the  future  are  to  take  place  on  the  old 
theatres  of  Assyria,  Macedonia,  Greece,  and  Rome  ;  or  on 
the  more  recent,  yet  already  antiquated  arenas  of  Modern 
Europe  ?  The  winds  rush  where  there  is  vacancy.  The 
great  historic  currents  of  the  next  half-millennium  must 
disembogue  where  they  find  room. 

The  fact,  then,  that  there  is  no  pre-occupancy,  and  no 
effete  civilization,  in  the  African  world,  is  a  ground  of 
expectancy  and  of  courage  in  regard  to  it.  It  is  a  nega- 
tive preparation  for  great  results,  when  the  time  arrives. 

2.  A  second  ground  of  confident  hope,  in  reference  to 
the  future  of  Africa,  is  found  in  the  qualities  of  the 
African  nature.  The  characteristics  of  the  African  man 
are  still  almost  as  unknown,  as  those  of  the  African  soil  or 
the  African  flora.  There  are  two  reasons  for  this.  In  the 
first  place,  the  African  has  never  been  in  a  situation  where 
the  depth  and  reserve  of  his  nature  has  been  drawn  upon. 
Only  the  superficies  of  his  being  has  been  called  into 
exercise ;  so  that  his  real  and  true  manhood  lies  as  hidden 
as  the  sources  of  the  Nile.  In  the  second  place,  and  as  a 
consequence  of  this,  only  his  surface-traits  and  character- 
istics have  appeared  in  his  portraiture.  These,  moreover, 
having  been  exorbitantly  unfolded,  because  there  lias 
been  none  of  the  balance  and  moderation  of  a  deeper  edu- 
cation and  culture,  have  been  as  extravagantly  depicted. 
The  black  man  in  literature  is,  therefore,  either  a  weakling 
or  a  caricature.  The  comic  side  of  him,  alone,  comes  into 
view.  The  single  sonnet  of  AVordsworth  upon  the  chief- 
tain Toussaint,  and  the  "  sparkles  dire  of  fierce,  vindictive 
Bong,"  from  the  American  Whittier,  are  almost  the  only 


THE  AFKICAN  XATLKE.  251 

literary  allusions  to  the  sublime  and  tragic  elements  in  the 
negro's  nature  and  condition  ;  certainly  the  only  allusions 
that,  without  any  abatement  and  introduction  of  ludicrous 
traits,  ally  him  soleli/  with  human 

"  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind." 

The  African  nature  is  the  tropical  nature.  All  the 
races  that  have  hitherto  struggled  upon  the  arena  of  his- 
tory have  belonged  to  the  temperate  zone.  The  Egyptian, 
the  Assyrian,  the  Babylonian,  the  Persian,  the  Greek,  the 
Macedonian,  the  Roman,  the  Goth,  the  Frank,  the  English- 
man, the  Anglo-American — all  lived  north  of  Cancer. 
And  the  fact,  that  thus  far  the  inter-trupical  portion  of 
the  globe  has  furnished  few  or  none  of  the  elements  of 
human  history,  is  very  often  cited  to  prove  that  it  can 
furnish  none.  It  has  almost  come  to  be  an  axiom,  that 
tiie  hot  zone  cannot  ripen  man.  Brazil  may  crystallize 
diamonds  of  the  purest  water,  and  Africa  may  distil  the 
most  elaborate  juices  and  gums;  but  high  intelligence 
and  free  will  nnist  grow  up  beneath  northern  skies. 

Now,  it  is  undoubtedly  true  that  i\\c,  fallen  human  be 
ing  needs  stimulation,  and  that  ainfid  man  has  done  best 
M'heu  he  has  l>een  crowded  from  the  outside.  Easy  and 
pleasant  circumstances  have  always  proved  too  much  for 
liis  feeble  virtue.  Hence,  though  he  was  created  in  para- 
dise, and  lapped  in  elysium  so  long  as  he  could  bear  it, 
yet,  the  very  moment  he  unfitted  himself  for  such  ])erpet- 
ual  ])eace  and  joy,  lie  was  driven  out  among  the  thorns 
and  thistles,  and  com[)elled  to  eat  his  bread  in  the  sweat 
of  hia  brcnv'.  In  c<»nse(picnce  of  human  ap(jstafiy,  tiieii, 
and  f<jr  no  other  reason,  the  general  movement  of  inimau 
history   liaa   been   in   climes  and    under  skies  that  havo 


252  THE  AFRICAN  NATURE. 

tasked  man,  and  have  fretted  him  to  action.  While, 
therefore,  it  is  conceded  that  the  coklor  zones  and  the 
harder  soils  have  been  favorable,  like  the  primitive  curse 
of  labor  itself,  to  the  best  unfolding  of  an  imperfect  and 
a  corrupt  humanity,  it  stills  remains  true,  that  man  Avas 
originally  made  for  an  outwai-d  woi-ld  of  genial  warmth,  of 
luxuriant  growth,  and  of  beauty.  The  primitive  man  was 
nude  ;  his  light  labor  was  merely  to  prune  away  luxuri- 
ance; and  his  spiritual  mind,  sanctified  by  direct  inter- 
course with  angel,  seraph,  and  the  Eternal  Mind,  could 
both  endure  and  profit  by  the  otherwise  enervating  bliss 
and  beauty  of  Eden.  This  original  intent  and  adaptation 
of  the  Ci-eator  warrants  the  belief,  that  as  there  are  some 
circumstances  and  influences  under  a  temperate  sky  that 
are  favorable  to  human  development,  so  there  are  some, 
also,  beneath  a  torrid  one.  Wherever  man  can  sro  and 
live,  there  he  can  grow  and  thrive.  Wisdom  rejoiceth  in 
all  the  habitable  parts  of  the  earth ;  and  her  delights  are 
with  all  the  sons  of  men. 

What,  then,  are  the  fundamental  peculiarities  of  the 
African,  or  of  man  within  the  tropics,  that  afford  ground 
for  faith  and  confidence  that  human  nature  will  here  also, 
in  due  season,  exhibit  a  culture  and  character  unique  and 
fine  ? 

Before  proceeding  to  give  only  the  very  brief  answer, 
which  the  time  allows,  to  this  question,  it  is  necessary  to 
direct  attention  to  the  comprehensiveness  of  the  word 
"  African."  We  mean  by  it,  and  it  properly  denotes,  a 
physical  and  mental  structure  that  belongs  to  the  African 
continent  as  a  M'hole,  in  the  same  sense  that  the  Asiatic 
structure  belongs  to  Asia,  and  the  European  structure  be- 
longs to  Europe.  The  term,  therefoi-e,  includes  a  variety 
of  races ;  all,  however,  characterized  by  certain  common 
traits.     From  the  mouths  of  the  Nile  to  the  Cape  of  Good 


THE   AFRICAN   NATURE.  253 

Hope,  the  observing  traveller  will  find  a  primary  type  of 
mankind,  different  from  the  Shemitic,  and  different  from 
the  Japhetic ;  a  style  of  man  which  is  original  and  sni- 
generis ;  and  the  minor  varieties  of  which  can  easily  be 
accounted  for,  by  the  physical  changes  that  are  made  by 
varieties  in  the  modes  of  living,  and  particularly  in  the 
degrees  of  proximity  to  the  burning  equatorial  line. 

It  is  the  misfortune  of  Africa,  that  only  the  most  de- 
graded portion  of  its  population  have  been  its  representa- 
tives before  the  world.  The  enslaved,  and  thereby  ira- 
bruted  negro  is  the  only  specimen  from  which  the  civilized 
world  obtains  its  ideas,  and  draws  its  conclusions,  as  to  the 
dignity  and  capabilities  of  the  tropical  man.  But,  the 
coast  negro,  as  we  shall  soon  have  occasion  to  see,  is,  in 
his  best  estate,  merely  the  extreme  of  the  African  type ; 
and  even  he  has  not  yet  been  seen  in  his  best  estate. 
What  would  be  thought  of  a  generalization,  in  respect  to 
the  native  traits  and  capacities  of  the  whole  Celtic  stock — 
of  the  entire  Ijlood  of  polished  France,  and  elorpient  Ire- 
land, and  the  galhmt  Scotch  Highlands — that  should  be 
deduced  from  the  In-utish  descendants  of  those  Irish  who 
were  driven  out  of  Ulster  and  South  Down  in  the  time  of 
Cromwell ;  men,  now,  of  the  most  repulsive  characteris- 
tics ;  "  with  ojien  projecting  mouths,  prominent  and  ex- 
posed gums,  advancing  cheek-bones,  depressed  noses, 
hciglit,  five  feet  two  inches  on  an  average,  bow-legge<l, 
aljortively  featured,  their  clothing,  a  wisp  of  rags ;  spectres 
of  a  people  that  were  once  well-grown,  able-bodied,  an<I 
comely."  But  such  a  judgment  would  be  of  e(]ual  value 
with  that  narrow  estimate  of  the  natural  traits  and  char- 
acteristics of  the  inhabitants  of  one  entire  quarter  of  the 
globe,  which  rests  \ii»<»n  an  ac(piaintan(re  with  a  small  i)or- 
tion  of  them,  a  m(!re  inlinitesimal  of  them,  carried  into  h 
foreign  land  and  reduced  to  slavery. 


25 i  THE    AFIilCAN    NATUKE. 

The  African  seems  to  differ  from  the  European  and  the 
Asiatic,  by  a  fuller,  more  profuse,  and  more  sensuous 
orixanization.  lie  is  emi)hatically  the  child  of  the  Earth 
and  the  Sun.  His  tissues  are  not  compact,  tougli,  and 
iibrous,  like  those  of  the  more  northern  races.  On  the 
contrary,  they  are  tumid,  and  betoken  a  luxurious  soil. 
The  organs  of  the  senses — the  eyes,  nose,  mouth,  and  ears 
— are  "  rich,"  in  the  technical  phrase  of  the  physiogno- 
mist ;  and  in  the  extreme  types  are  animal  and  coarse. 
Man  is  like  the  earth  he  lives  upon  ;  and  the  African  man 
corresponds  to  that  tropical  soil  and  climate,  in  which 
every  seed  swells  and  sprouts  with  the  rank  luxuriance  of 
a  jungle.  The  great  generical  feature  in  the  African, 
then,  is  richiess  and  fulness  in  the  physical  organiza- 
tion /  and,  in  proof  that  it  is  so,  we  shall  cite  the  testi- 
mony of  travellers  and  physiologists. 

The  French  Denon  tells  us,  that  "  instead  of  the  sharp 
features,  the  keen,  animated,  and  restless  visages,  the  lean 
and  active  figures  of  the  Arabian,"  he  finds  "  in  the  land 
of  the  Pharaohs,  full  but  delicate  and  voluptuous  forms  ; 
countenances  sedate  and  placid  ;  round  and  soft  features  ; 
with  eyes  long,  ahiiond-shaped,  half-shut  and  languishing, 
and  turned  np  at  the  outer  angles,  as  if  haljitually  fatigued 
by  the  light  and  heat  of  the  sun;  thick  lips,  full  and 
prominent;  mouths  large,  but  cheerful  and  smiling;  com- 
plexions dark,  ruddy,  and  coppery  ;  and  the  whole  aspect 
displaying,  as  one  of  the  most  graphic  delineators  among 
modern  travellers  has  observed,  the  geiiuine  African 
character,  of  which  the  negro  is  the  exaggerated  and 
extreme  representation."  I31umenbach's  examinations  of 
the  Egyptian  mununies  led  him  to  the  belief,  that  there 
are  three  varieties  in  the  physiognomy  expressed  in  Egyp- 
tian paintings  and  sculptures.  One  of  these  was  the 
Ethiopian,  which,  he  says,  "  coincides  with  the  descriptions 


THE  AFRICAN  NATURE.  255 

given  of  the  Egyptians  by  the  ancients,  and  is  chiefly  dis- 
tinguished by  prominent  jaws,  turgid  lips,  a  broad  flat 
nose,  and  protruding  eyeballs."  "  Among  the  modern 
Copts,"  says  Prichard,  "  many  travellers  have  remarked  a 
certain  approximation  to  the  negro.  Volney  says  that 
they  have  a  yellowish,  dusky  complexion,  resembling 
neither  the  Grecian  nor  Arabian  ;  and  adds,  that  they 
have  a  puffed  visage,  swollen  eyes,  flat  nose,  and  thick 
lips,  and  bear  much  resemblance  to  mulattoes."  Ledyard, 
■whose  testimony  Prichard  remarks  is  of  the  more  value  as 
he  had  no  theory  to  support,  says :  "  I  suspect  the  Copts 
to  have  been  the  origiii  of  the  negro  race :  the  nose  and 
lips  correspond  with  those  of  the  negro.  The  hair,  where- 
ever  I  can  see  it  among  the  people  here  (the  Copts),  is 
curled,  not  like  that  of  the  negroes,  but  like  that  of  the 
mulattoes."  * 

But  if  the  ancient  Egyptians  and  modern  Copts  exhibit 
the  full,  sensuous,  and  luxurious  organization  of  the 
African,  and  properly  belong  to  the  African  race,  it  cer- 
tainly will  not  be  diflicult  to  establish  the  same  claim  for 
all  the  remaining  dwellers  on  the  continent.  The  former 
were  nearest  to  Asia  and  Europe,  and  were  most  affected 
by  foreign  influences;  and  yet  the  type  could  not  be 
changed  ;  tlic  round  check,  the  full  protuberant  eye,  the 
dark  hue,  could  not  be  converted  into  their  contraries. 

Passing  southward,  into  the  l)urning  heart  of  Africa, 
we  And  the  trojjical  man  in  yet  greater  intensity  and 
power.  The  races  of  Soudan  display  tiie  fervid  type  of 
humanity  fully  formed,  and  in  the  highest  degree.  There 
are  varieties  in  this  great  central  region  ;  the  lowest  being 
found  on  the  (iuinea  coast,  and  the  higher  ones  meeting 
the  traveller  as  lie  rises  those  great  terraces  i)y  wlii<li  t  hr  con- 

♦  Prichard'H  Natural  IlUtory  of  Mau,  ip.  lol-ir.O. 


250  THE   AFRICAN   NATURE. 

tinent  lifts  itself  up  from  the  sea.  The  negroes  of  the  Gold 
Coast,  thougli  dwelling  amidst  miasm  and  fever,  and  feel- 
ing only  the  very  worst  inflncnces  of  European  intercourse, 
are  nevertheless  characteri^ied  by  Barbot  as  "  generally 
M'ell-limbed,  and  well-proportioned ;  having  good  oval 
faces,  sparkling  eyes,  eyebrows  lofty  and  thick,  mouths 
not  too  large,  clean  white  and  well-arranged  teeth,  fresh 
red  lipf?,  not  so  thick  and  pendent  as  those  of  Angola,  nor 
their  noses  so  broad."  "Among  the  Ashantee  tribe  of 
this  same  Guinea  race,"  says  Bowditch,  "are  to  be  seen, 
especially  among  the  higher  orders,  not  only  the  finest 
figures,  but,  in  many  instances,  regular  Grecian  features, 
with  brilliant  eyes,  set  rather  obliquely  in  the  head." 

Of  the  Senegambian  nations,  the  Mandingoes  are  re- 
markable for  their  industry;  and,  of  all  the  inter-tropical 
races,  have  shown  the  greatest  energy  of  character.  Their 
features  are  regular,  their  character  generous  and  open, 
and  their  manners  gentle.  Their  hair  is  of  the  kind 
termed  completely  woolly.  The  Fulahs,  another  Senegam- 
bian people,  forge  iron  and  silver,  and  work  skilfully  in 
leather  and  wood,  and  fabricate  cloth.  An  intelligent 
French  traveller  describes  them  as  fine  men,  robust  and 
courageous,  understanding  commerce,  and  travelling  as 
far  as  to  the  Gulf  of  Guinea.  The  color  of  their  skin  is  a 
kind  of  reddish-l^lack,  their  countenances  are  regular,  and 
their  hair  longer  and  not  so  woolly  as  those  of  the  com- 


mon negroes 


* 


These  statements  may  be  overdrawn  in  some  particulars, 
and  further  exploration  is  undoubtedly  required,  in  order 
to  form  a  sure  and  completely  satisfactory  judgment  re- 
specting the  tribes  of  Soudan.  But,  certainly,  all  the 
information  thus  far  obtained,  goes  to  evince  that  this 

*  Prichard's  Natural  History  of  Man,  pp.  297-307. 


THE   AFRICAN   NATURE.  257 

Negro-land  is  filled  np  with  no  puny  populations,  but 
witli  barbaric  races  of  a  powerful  structure — the  bone 
and  muscle  out  of  whicli  a  Christian  civilization  shall 
hereafter  form  a  powerful  style  of  man.* 

Finally,  threading  our  way  downward,  from  the  terraces 
to  the  southern -ward  slope  of  the  African  continent,  we 
find  the  Hottentot  and  Kaffir,  the  most  degraded  of  the 
African  races, — yet  owinor  the  excess  of  their  degradation, 
by  which  they  fall  below  the  other  African  tribes,  to  the 
contact  and  influence  of  a  corrupt  European  civilization. 
Unless  a- genuine  Christian  influence  shall  eventually  be 
thrown  in  upon  them  by  missions,  by  education,  and  by 
commerce,  it  was,  indeed,  as  one  remarks,  an  ill-omened 
h(jur  when  a  Christian  navigator  descried  the  Cape  of 
Storms.  The  Hottentot,  by  war  and  vices,  has  to  a  great 
extent  degenerated  into  the  Bushman  ;  but  the  Kaffir 
still  retains  his  aboriginal  traits.  Professor  Lichtenstein 
describes  them  as  follows :  "  They  are  tall,  strong,  and 
their  liml)8  well  proportioned  ;  their  color  is  brown  ;  their 
hail",  black  and  woolly  ;  they  have  the  high  forehead  and 
])r()minent  nose  of  the  Europeans,  the  thick  lips  of  the 
negroes,  and  the  high  cheek-bones  of  the  lIuttentots."f 

This  rapid  survey  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  continent, 
from  north  to  south,  justifies  us,  then,  in  attributing  a 
common  continental  character  to  them  all ;  and  a  coiiti- 
nental  character  that  is  neither  feel)le  nor  emasculated, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  one  that  is  muscular,  arterial,  and 
[)rodigal.  There  is  a  gencrical  type  of  the  Afri(tau  natury, 
constituted  by  the  assemblage  of  certain  jthysical  and 
mental  charactcristicH,  which  may  be  found  all  over  the 

*  Since  thi.n  was  written,  twenty  yearaof  innrvellouH  exploration,  by 
liivinffHtone  and  iiLIkth,  Huh  iipittied  (Jeiitral  Afri<;ii  in  oviiry  din^ction, 
and  this  description  of  the  African  races  liiw  been  ulmndautly  couftrracd. 

f  Prichard's  Natural  History  of  Man,  p.  ."517. 


258  THE  AFRICAN  NATUKE. 

African  continent,  whereby  this  portion  of  the  globe  be- 
comes as  distinct  and  peculiar  as  Asia,  or  Europe,  or 
America.  And  it  is  from  this  inter-tropical  humanity, 
that  we  are  to  deduce  a  ground  of  belief,  and  confidence, 
that  Ethiopia  will  yet  stretch  out  her  hands  to  God,  and 
that  Africa  is  finally  to  acquire  a  place  iu  the  universal 
history  of  man  on  the  globe. 

The  cliief  characteristic  of  the  African  nature  is  the 
union  of  recipiency  with i^obssion.  The  African  is  docile. 
He  has  nothing  of  the  hard  and  self-assertinor  nature  of 
the  Goth.  He  is  indisposed,  like  the  dweller  of  the  cold 
and  stimulating  zones,  to  stamp  his  own  individuality  upon 
others.  On  the  contrary,  his  plastic,  ductile,  docile  nature 
receives  influence  from  every  side,  gladly  and  genially.  It 
is  not  probable  that  great  empires  will  be  built  up  on  the 
African  continent,  that  will  extend  their  sway  over  other 
parts  of  the  globe — as  the  Persian  sought  to  obtain  rule  iu 
Europe,  but  was  thwarted  by  Greece;  or  as  the  Roman 
extended  his  dominion  over  both  Asia  and  Africa.  The 
lust  of  empire  will  probably  never  run  in  African  blood  ; 
for,  foreign  conquest  requires  a  stern,  self-reliant,  indocile, 
ambitious  nature,  that  would  force  itself  upon  other  races 
and  regions  ;  and  of  this,  the  tropical  man  has  little  or 
nothing.  It  is  rather  to  be  expected  that  the  Afi-ican  will 
confine  himself  to  his  own  home,  within  the  tropics,  and 
will  there  take  up,  into  his  own  rich  and  receptive  nature, 
the  great  variety  of  elements  and  influences  that  will  be 
f  urnislied  by  other  races  and  portions  of  the  globe. 

Under  such  circumstances,  a  unique  and  remarkable 
development  of  human  nature  must  occur.  A  new  form 
of  naticjual  life  will  take  rise.  For,  this  plastic  character, 
this  deep  and  absorbing  receptivity,  will  be  an  alluvium 
in  which  all  seeds  that  are  planted  will  strike  a  long  root, 
and  shoot  up  a  luxuriant  growth.     National  history,  thus 


THE  AFRICAN  NATURE.  259 

far,  exhibits  stiinulant  natures,  and  stimulant  character- 
istics. The  types  of  nationality  that  figure  in  the  past, 
have  general Iv  been  moulded  from  this  sort  of  material — 
a  species  which  has  reached  its  height  in  the  Anglo-Saxon. 
This  quality  is,  indeed,  a  strong,  intense,  and  grand  one  ; 
and  we  are  the  last  to  disparage  its  worth.  The  triumphs 
of  modern  Cliristianity,  and  modern  civilization,  are  inti- 
mately connected  with  its  powerful  and  persistent  action 
in  individuals  and  nations.  But,  this  tense  and  stimulant 
nature,  characteristic  of  man  in  the  northern  zone,  has  its 
deficiencies,  also,  like  everything  human.  In  isolation, 
and  after  long  strain,  it  becomes  wiry,  hard,  brittle,  broken. 
It  would  not  be  well  that  it  should  be  the  sole  type  of 
hutnanity;  or  that  no  other  elemcuts  than  it  can  furnish 
should  enter  into  the  texture  and  fabric  of  national  or 
individual  life,  from  generation  to  generation.  The  Saxon 
himself,  in  order  to  his  own  preservation  even,  as  well  as 
his  own  best  development,  needs  some  infusion  of  equa- 
torial elements.  It  would  be  well,  if  his  already  over- 
wrought stimulancy  could  be  somewhat  tranquillized  and 
enriciicd  by  the  languor  and  sluggishness  of  the  tropics. 
It  would  be  well,  if  the  hollow  features  of  the  Anglo- 
Amei'ican  could  assume  somewhat  of  the  rounded  fulness 
of  the  Sphinx's  or  the  Mcnmon's  face;  if  his  eager  and 
too  shallow  eye  could  be  made  bulbous,  and  deep,  like 
that  of  Soudan. 

This,  then,  is  the  groundwork  of  the  coming  nationali- 
ties in  Africa.  It  is  a  mild,  docile,  nnising,  anil  reci[)icnt 
Tjatui'e,  which  is  to  drink  in  all  the  inllucnces  that  shall 
\)()\\v  foi'th  from  the  ol<l,  Hn<l  peilia{is  thi.ii  declining  civi- 
lizations of  tiie  other  zones.  It  is  the  artist,  h  nature,  open 
at  every  pore,  sensitive  in  every  globule  and  cell  of  tissue, 
pulsing  with  a  warm  and  somewhat  slumbrous  life — adccp 
base,  for  a  high  structure. 


2G0  THE  AFRICAN  NATURE. 

But,  this  lethargic  quality  in  the  tropical  man  is  allied 
with  an  opposite  one.  He  is  also  a  creature  of  passion. 
In  the  phrase  of  Mark  Antony,  there  is  a  "fire  tliat 
quickens  Xilus'  slime."  Like  his  own  clime,  the  inhabi- 
tant of  the  troj)ics  combines  great  antagonisms  in  his  con- 
stitution. This  slumber  of  his  nature  is  readily  stirred 
into  wildest  rage :  as  the  heavy  and  curtained  air  of  the 
equator,  which  has  hung  dense  and  still  for  days  and 
weeks,  is  suddenly  disparted  by  electric  currents,  and,  in 
an  instant,  is  one  wide,  livid  blaze  of  lightning.  This 
quality,  like  all  counterbalancing  ones,  is  not  strictly  con- 
trary to  the  one  that  has  just  been  described.  AVere  it 
so,  the  one  would  neutralize  and  kill  the  other.  There 
would  be  no  interpenetration  of  the  two,  if  nothing  but 
the  relation  of  sheer  and  mere  contrariety,  like  that  be- 
tween fire  and  water,  obtained  between  these  two  qualities 
in  the  African  nature.  It  is  antithesis,  not  contrariety. 
For,  this  very  passion  itself  originates  in,  and  springs 
directly  out  of,  the  lethai'gy.  The  nature  has  been  slum- 
brous and  dormant,  only  that  it  may,  at  the  proper  time, 
be  fiery  and  active.  The  one  balances,  not  neutralizes, 
the  other.  Were  there  an  unintermittent  dran£:ht  and 
strain  upon  the  entire  man,  there  could  never  be  this  trop- 
ical vehemence.  But  the  slumber  is  recuperative  of  the 
constitutional  force  ;  and,  in  and  by  the  oscillations  of 
passion  and  lethargy,  the  wondrous  life  goes  on. 

That  the  African  is  a  passionate  being,  is  attested  by 
all  history.  No  one  can  look  at  the  features  of  the  Mem- 
Don,  without  perceiving  that  beneath  that  placid  contour 
there  sleeps  a  world  of  passion.  Shakspeare  has  given 
Cleopatra  to  us  in  her  own  proud  words : 


I  am  fire  and  air  ;  my  other  elements 
I  give  to  baser  life. " 


THE   AFRICAN   NATURE.  261 

The  inflnences  of  Christianity  do  not  destroy,  but  refine 
and  sanctify,  this  quality.  Tlie  Xorth-Africau  church  of 
the  first  centuries  was  full  of  divine  fire.  It  flashes  in 
the  laboring  but  powerful  rhetoric  of  Tertullian.  It 
glows  like  anthracite  in  the  thoughts  of  Augustine,  whose 
svmbol  in  the  church  is  a  fiamin<i:  heart ;  and  over  whose 
mighty  and  passionate  sensualism  the  serene,  spiritualiz- 
ing, and  divine  power  of  Christianity  ultimately,  and 
onlv  after  an  eleinen-tal  war  within  like  that  of  chaos, 
wrought  out  an  ethereal  and  saintly  transformation  that 
has  not  yet  been  paralleled  in  the  history  of  the  church. 

But  we  need  not  go  into  the  distant  past,  or  into  the 
distant  African  continent,  for  evidence  upon  this  point. 
"We  cannot  look  into  the  eve  of  the  dei^raded  black  man 
who  meets  us  in  our  daily  walks,  without  perceiving  that 
he  i)elongs  to  the  torrid  zone.  The  eye,  more  than  any 
other  feature,  is  the  index  of  the  soul,  and  of  the  soul's 
life.  That  full,  licpiid,  opaline  orb,  that  looks  out  upon 
us  from  face  and  features  that  are  stolid,  or  perhaps 
repulsive,  testifies  to  the  union  of  passion  and  lethargy 
in  tiiis  fellow-creature.  That  large  and  throbbing  ball, 
that  sad  and  burning  glance,  though  in  a  degraded  and 
down-trodden  man,  betoken  that  he  belongs  to  a  passion- 
ate, a  lyrical,  and  an  eloquent  race. 

This  tropical  eye  when  found  in  conjunction  with  Cau- 
casian features  is  indicative  of  a  very  remarkable  organi- 
zati(;n.  It  shows  that  tremulous  sensibilities  are  reposing 
upon  a  l>ase  of  logic.  IS'o  one  could  \\\  his  gaze,  for  a 
moment,  iipon  that  great  Northern  statesman  who  has  so 
recently  g(jne  down  to  liis  grave,  without  perceiving  that 
this  rare  comljination  of  the  temperate  with  the  tiopical 
was  the  pliysical  substrate  of  what  lie  was,  and  what  ho 
did.  That  deep-black  iris,  cincturcfl  in  a  pearl-white 
sclerotic,  and  more  than  all,  that  fervid  torrid  glaucc  and 


262  THE  AFRICAN  NATURE. 

gleam,  were  the  exponents  and  expression  of  a  tropical 
nature  ;  while  the  thorough-bred  Saxonisni  of  all  the  rest 
of  tlie  plwsical  structure  indicated  the  calm  and  massive 
strength  that  nuderlay,  and  supported,  all  the  passion  and 
all  the  lire.  It  was  the  nnion  of  two  great  human  types 
in  a  single  personality.  It  was  the  whole  torrid  zone  en- 
closed and  npheld  in  the  temperate. 

It  will  be  apparent  from  this  analysis,  that  the  African 
nature  possesses  a  latent  capacity  equal,  originally,  and 
after  its  own  kind,  to  that  of  the  Asiatic  or  the  European. 
Shem  and  Japhet  sprang  from  the  very  same  loins  with 
Ham.  God  made  of  one  blood  those  three  great  races  by 
which  he  repopnlated  the  globe  after  the  deluge.  This 
blending  of  two  such  striking  antitheses  as  energy  and 
lethargy,  the  soul  and  the  sense  ;  this  inlaying  of  a  fine 
and  fiery  organization  into  drowsy  flesh  and  blood ;  this 
supporting  of  a  keen  and  irritable  nerve  by  a  tumid  and 
strong  muscular  cord — what  finer  coml^ination  than  this  is 
there  among  the  varied  types  of  mankind?  The  ol)jec- 
tion  urged  against  the  possibility  of  a  historical  progress 
in  Africa  similar  to  that  in  the  other  continents,  upon  the 
false  ground  that  the  original  germ  and  basis  was  an  infe- 
rior one — an  objection  that  shows  itself,  if  not  theoreti- 
cally yet  practically,  in  the  form  of  inaction,  and  an  ab- 
sence of  enthusiasm  and  enterprising  feeling  when  the 
claims  of  Africa  are  spoken  of — this  objection  is  invalid. 
The  philosophic  and  the  philanthropic  mind  must,  both 
alike,  rise  above  the  prejudices  of  an  age,  and  look  beyond 
a  present  and  temporary  degradation  that  has  been  the 
result  of  centuries  of  ignorance  and  slavery.  If  this  be 
done,  the  philosopher  sees  no  reason  for  refusing  to  apply 
ihe  same  law  of  progress  and  development  (])rovided  the 
external  circumstances  be  favorable,  and  the  necessary 
conditions  exist)  to  tlie  tropical  man,  that  he  does  to  the 


THE  AFRICAN  NATOIE.  263 

man  of  tlie  temperate  or  the  arctic  zones ;  and  no  reason 
for  doubting  that,  in  the  course  of  time,  and  under  the 
genial  influences  of  tlie  Christian  religion — the  mother  of 
lis  all — human  nature  will  exliibit  all  its  hiirh  traits  and 
qualities  in  the  black  races,  as  well  as  in  the  white.  And, 
certainly,  the  philanthropist,  after  a  wide  survey  of  liis- 
tory ;  after  tracing  back  the  modern  Englishman  to  the 
naked  Pict  and  bloody  Saxon  ;  after  comparing  the  filthy 
savage  of  Wapping  and  St.  Giles,  with  the  very  same 
being  and  the  very  same  blood  in  the  drawing-rooms  of 
Belgrave  Square ;  has  every  reason  for  keeping  up  his 
courage,  and  going  forward  with  his  work.  There  liave 
been  much  stranger  transformations  in  history,  than  the 
rise  of  African  republics,  and  African  civilizations,  and 
African  literatures  will  be. 

But,  how  is  the  way  to  be  prepared  for  this?  From 
what  point  or  points,  and  through  what  instrumentalities, 
is  the  alteration  to  begin  ?  It  is  this  second  branch  of  the 
subject  which,  we  now  proceed  briefly  to  examine. 

1.  It  is  natural  to  ex[)ect  that  the  movements  of  God's 
providence,  in  the  future,  will  be  very  much  like  those  of 
the  past  ;  and  that  civilization  and  culture  will,  hereafter, 
pass  into  the  unenlightened  parts  of  the  globe  in  very 
much  tlie  same  way  they  have  heretofore.  But,  history 
shows  that  this  has  uniformly  taken  place  by  the  exodus 
of  colonies.  Heligion,  law,  and  letters  are  not  indigenous, 
but  exotic,  in  all  the  past  career  of  man  on  the  globe. 
One  race  hands  the  torch  of  science  to  another.  One 
quarter  di  the  globe  is  both  the  parent  and  teacher  of 
another.  There  are  autochthones  nowhere.  There  are 
IK)  strictly  self-taught  men  anywhere.  Ami  in  the  last 
exatnination,  and  at  the  primary  origin  and  source,  we  arc 
com])olled  to  rise  above  earth  and  man  altogether,  and  lind 
the  first    beginnings  of  knowledge   and   religion    in    tlio 


26^  THE  AFKIOAN   NATURE. 

filcies.  From  first  to  last,  there  is  an  imjMrting  act  from 
the  higher  to  the  lower.  The  more  intelligent  makes 
revelations  to  the  less  intelligent.  The  genealogy  cannot 
stop  short  of  the  Creator  himself.  Cainan  was  the  son  of 
Enos,  "  which  was  the  son  of  Seth,  which  was  the  son  of 
Adam,  which  was  the  son  of  God." 

These  changes  and  movements  in  hnman  civilization 
are  particnlarly  visible  at  those  points  where  civilization 
passes  from  one  continent  to  another  continent.  The 
knots  in  the  grape-vine  reveal  where  the  life  gathers,  and 
concentrates  in  order  to  a  new  expansion.  Europe  re- 
ceived letters  and  civilization  from  Asia.  The  little  dis- 
trict of  Greece  was  the  radiating  point ;  for,  Rome  re- 
ceived them  from  Greece,  and  gave  them  to  all  her  empire. 
But,  the  original  sources  of  Greek  culture  were  colonists, 
few  and  feeble,  from  Egypt,  Phoenicia,  and  Asia  Minor. 
The  Egyptian  Cecrops  and  Danans  brought  over  the  seeds 
of  civility  to  Attica  and  Argos,  fifteen  centuries  before 
our  era.  The  Phoenician  Cadmns  carried  over  an  Asiatic 
alphabet  soon  after.  And  the  Lydian  Pelops  soon  fol- 
lowed with  his  wealth,  and  knowledge  of  the  mechanic 
arts.*  But,  the  consequences  of  this  immigration  from 
another  continent  were  not  felt,  to  any  great  extent,  upon 
Europe  at  large,  until  a  thousand  yeai-s  had  rolled  by. 
The  Greek,  with  all  his  treasures  of  wisdom  and  of 
beauty,  was  shut  up  from  the  "  barbarian  "  world,  until 
the  Poman  broke  down  the  barrier,  and  Grecian  culture 
then  had  free  course.  And  if  w^e  should  allow  a  millen- 
nium, for  a  colony  upon  the  African  coast  to  diffuse  law, 
manners,  letters,  and  religion,  over  the  African  continent, 
it  would  be  as  rajiid  a  movement  as  that  to  which  Ancient 
Rome  and  the  wlujle  Modern  World   owe  their  secular 

*  Heeren's  Ancient  Greece,  Chapter  IIL 


THE  AFKICAN  NATURE.  265 

civilization.  The  radiating  points  for  the  "Western  Con- 
tinent were  the  Spanish,  and  more  especially  the  British 
colonies.  The  movement  here  has  been  much  more  rapid 
than  anvthinof  in  the  historv  of  the  Old  World.  And  yet, 
after  more  than  two  centuries,  not  one-quarter  of  this 
Western  hemisphere  is  f  nlly  under  the  inliuence  of  Chris- 
tian civilization. 

The  history  of  the  past,  then,  indicates  that  Africa 
must  receive  religion,  law,  and  letters  in  the  same  way 
that  the  other  continents  have  received  them.  They  must 
be  given  to  her.  The  colonist  must  carry  the  seeds  of 
civilization  and  of  empire  into  the  tropical  world.  Chris- 
tendom owes  colonies  to  the  only  portion  of  the  globe  that 
has  never  yet  been  a  part  of  Christendom.  Europe  and 
America  ought  to  adopt  the  utterance  of  the  great  apos- 
tle to  Grecian  and  to  barbarian  Europe — an  utterance  to 
which  both  of  them,  under  God,  owe  their  religion  and 
their  cidture,  more  than  to  any  other  single  cause — and 
say:  "We  are  debtors,  as  much  as  in  us  lies,  to  barba- 
rian Africa."  Each  of  them  ought  to  prove  its  sincer- 
ity, by  entering  with  energy  upon  a  great  colonizing 
movement,  and  planting  Christian  colonies  all  along  the 
c<jast. 

2.  In  the  second  place,  it  is  the  colonist  of  African 
hlood,  upon  whom  the  chief  reliance  must  be  ])laccd,  so 
long  as  the  colonizing  period  continues.  For,  the  tropi- 
cal climate  necessitates  the  sluggish  blood  of  the  tj-opical 
man.  It  is  certain  death,  to  expose  the  nervous,  higli- 
Btrung,  and  never-relaxed  nature  of  the  Caucasian,  to  the 
fervors  of  the  burning  zone,  and  the  dami)S  of  an  equa- 
torial night-fall.  The  dweller  in  this  portion  of  the 
globe  nuist  l)e  able  to  rise  and  fall,  like  a  barometer,  with 
the  climate  ;  to  act  and  toil  vehemently  for  a  time,  and 
then  to  pass  into  a  recuperative  inaction.  All  the  colo- 
12 


266  THE  AFRICAN  NATUKE. 

iiists  of  history  liave  gone  from  temperate,  to  temperate 
regions.  The  true  colonist  for  the  tropics,  then,  is  the 
man  of  the  tropics.  It  may  be,  that  the  white  man  can 
live  upon  the  hio-h  grounds  of  the  interior,  when  the  heart 
of  Africa  shall  have  been  opened  to  commerce,  and  made 
yet  more  salubrious  by  agriculture  and  civilization  ;  but, 
for  a  long  time  to  come,  the  black  man  must  lay  the  foun- 
dations of  empire  and  civilization,  and  build  up  the  super- 
structure. 

And,  without  intending  to  disparage  in  the  least  the 
other  agencies  that  have  been  and  will  be  employed,  all 
present  indications  go  to  show  that  it  is  the  Liherian 
colonist  who  must  take  the  lead  in  this  great  movement. 
For,  the  Liberian  is  the  tropical  man  more  or  less  pene- 
trated by  the  cold  and  calm  ideas  of  the  North.  He  car- 
ries with  him  some  American  discipline  and  education. 
He  has  not  lost  his  ancestral  traits ;  for,  while  in  bond- 
age, he  has  still  lived  upon  the  borders  of  that  great  zone 
from  which  his  forefathers  were  stolen.  He  can  not  only 
endure,  but  he  loves  a  hot  and  languid  clime.  And  yet, 
he  has  felt  the  stimulation  of  that  active  race  among 
whom  he  has  lived.  The  wrath  of  man  has  praised  God. 
The  American  negro  has  been  made  aggi-essive,  and 
enterprising,  by  his  enslavement.  He  has  been  fitted  to 
be  a  colonist,  and  to  impress  himself  upon  the  passive  and 
plastic  millions  of  Africa,  by  a  process  that  involves  awful 
iruilt  in  the  human  authors  of  it.  Tlie  Liberian  colonist 
has,  thus  far,  obtained  a  firmer  foothold  than  any  other, 
upon  the  African  continent.  He  has  established  a  re- 
public whose  independence  is  acknowledged  by  the  lead- 
ing powers  of  the  world;  and  whose  nationality  has  now 
entered  into  the  history  of  nations.  There  is  a  definite 
point  of  departure,  and  a  living  germ  of  expansion  in 
Liberia. 


THE  AFRICAN  NATURE.  267 

Furthermore,  this  Liberian  republic  is  a  really  Chris- 
tian state.  There  is  not  now,  probably,  an  organized 
commonwealth  upon  the  globe,  in  which  the  principles  of 
Christianity  are  applied  with  such  a  childlike  directness 
and  simplicity,  to  the  management  of  public  affairs,  as  in 
Liberia.  New  England,  in  the  days  of  her  childhood, 
and  before  the  conflicting  interests  of  ecclesiastical  deno- 
minations introduced  jealousies ;  Geneva,  in  the  time  of 
John  Calvin,  wlien  the  church  and  the  state  were  practi- 
cally one  and  the  same  body,  now  acting  through  the  con- 
sistory, and  now  through  the  council ;  in  line,  all  religious 
commonwealths  in  their  infaiu;v,  and  before  increasiui' 
wealth  and  luxury  have  stupefied  conscience  and  dimmed 
the  moral  perception,  furnish  examples  of  the  existing 
state  of  things  in  the  African  i-epublic.  Even  the  common 
school  education,  which  the  Liberian  constitution  provides 
for  the  whole  population,  has  been  given  by  the  mission- 
ary, and  in  connection  with  the  most  direct  religious  in- 
structions and  inH nonces.  The  state  papers  of  the  Libe- 
rian Executive  and  Legislature  breathe  a  grav^e  and  seri- 
ous spirit,  like  tliut  which  inspires  the  documents  of  our 
own  colonial  and  revolutionary  periods.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary, in  the  heart  of  New  England,  and  l)efore  such  an 
audience  as  this,  to  enlarge  upon  the  significance  of  the 
fact,  that  the  most  influential  radiating  point  for  civilization 
in  Western  Africa  is  a  religious  repuhlic.  No  reflecting 
man  can  ponder  the  fact,  and  tin'nk  of  all  it  involves,  with- 
out ejacuhiting,  from  the  depths  of  his  soul:  ''(Jodsavo 
the  ('ommonweahh  of  Liberia." 

Such, then,  is  the  general  nature  of  the  argument  for  A  fri- 
can  colonies,  and  for  the  American  Colonization  Society. 
The  race  itself,  which  it  proposes  to  elevate  and  Christian- 
ize, is  one  of  the  three  great  races  in  and  through  which  God 
intended,  after  the  total  destruction  of  all  antecedent  onea 


268  THE   AFRICAN   NATURE. 

by  the  ilood,  to  re-people  the  globe  and  subdue  it.  The 
tropical  man  and  the  tropical  mind  is  destined,  sooner  or 
later,  to  enter  into  human  history,  and  to  have  a  history. 
It  is  in  thin  faith,  tliat  the  Society  whose  anniversary  we 
are  celebrating  toils  and  prays.  It  has  been  its  misfor- 
tune, that  its  vision  has  been  clearer  than  that  of  others, 
and  that  it  has,  consequently,  cherished  plans  that  have 
appeared  impracticable.  But,  this  is  always  the  misfor- 
tune of  faitli  within  the  sacred  sphere,  and  of  genius 
within  the  secular.  Each  of  them  may  say  to  the  torpid 
soul : 

"  I  hear  a  voice  thou  canst  not  hear  ; 
I  see  a  hand  thou  canst  not  see." 

Through  good  report,  and  through  evil  report,  the 
American  Colonization  Society  has  pursued  its  straight- 
onward  course,  and  now  begins  to  see  what  it  foresaw.  It 
sees  four  hundred  miles  of  the  African  coast  secured,  by 
fair  purchase  and  peaceble  occupation,  to  the  area  of  free- 
do.m.  It  sees  this  coast-line  widened  into  a  surface  of 
fifty  miles  towards  the  interior,  and  destined  to  extend 
rapidly  inland  and  coastwise.  It  sees  the  slave  trade 
extinct  not  only  within  Liberian  jurisdiction,  but  shrink- 
ing away  from  the  remoter  borders  of  it.  It  sees  ten 
thousand  colonists  from  America,  with  their  descendants, 
mingling  with,  and  giving  tone  to,  three  hundred  thou- 
sands of  native  population.  It  sees  a  large  annual  com- 
merce coming  into  existence,  and  one  that  is  increasing 
in  rapid  ratio.  It  sees  a  regular  republican  government 
working  firmly  and  equally  through  the  forms  of  law, 
and  administered  with  singular  prudence  and  energy.  It 
sees  a  S3'stem  of  education,  from  the  primary  to  the  colle- 
giate, exerting  its  elevating  influence  upon  the  mass  of 
the  peoj^le,  and  an  incipient  literature,  in  state-papers  and 


THE  AFRICAN  NATURE.  2G9 

public  addresses.  It  sees  the  clmrch  of  Christ  crowning 
all  other  institutions,  and  giving  direction  to  the  mind  and 
heart  of  the  rising  state. 

Looking  back,  then,  over  the  brief  forty  years  of  its  ex- 
istence, and  pointing  to  what  God  has  wrought  by  it,  is 
not  the  American  Colonization  Society  justified  in  boldly 
appealing  to  the  philanthropist,  for  tlie  means  of  still 
greater  benefits  to  the  African,  and  to  Africa  ?  For,  the 
time  has  now  arrived  for  enlarged  operations.  Africa  is 
evidently  upon  the  eve  of  great  events.  The  explorations 
of  Barth,  and  Vogel,  and  Anderson,  and  Moffat,  and 
Livingstone;  the  English  Niger  expeditions;  the  curiosity 
and  courage  of  individual  explorers,  in  search  of  the  head- 
waters of  the  Nile  ;  the  discovery  of  fine  stalwart  races  all 
through  the  interior ;  the  very  rapid  growth  of  African 
commerce,  at  points  upon  both  the  Eastern  and  Western 
coasts ;  the  very  mystery,  itself,  which  overhangs  this  part 
of  the  globe,  the  more  stimulating  because  all  the  rest  of 
the  world  lies  in  comparative  sunlight — all  these  things 
combined  tend  to  the  belief  that,  comparatively',  more  will 
be  discovered,  and  more  will  be  done,  in  and  about 
Africa,  within  the  coming  century,  than  in  and  about  any 
other  quarter  of  the  globe.  The  other  continents  have 
had  tlicir  hour  of  deliverance.  The  hour  for  Africa  has 
now,  for  the  first  time,  come.  Her  scores  of  races  prove 
to  have  capacities  for  Christianity  and  self-govenunent. 
Tlie  American  cmancii)ationist  is  ready  and  waiting  to 
send  out,  amcjng  them,  hundreds  and  thouKunds  of 
Americanized  colonists.  Shall  not  the  philanthropists  of 
this  land  now  make  full  proof  of  the  colonizing  method  ? 
— tliat  method  which  w:us  employed  with  such  vigor  by 
liome  in  Romanizing  the  barbarians  whom  siie  conquered  ; 
that  method  by  which  liritain,  the  modern  Ilome,  has 
made  her  drum-beat  to  be  licanl  round  the  globe  ?     And, 


270  THE  AFRICAN  NATURE, 

especially,  shall  not  the  church  of  Christ  secure  a  foot- 
hold and  a  protection  for  its  missionaries  in  Africa,  by 
lielping  to  extend  the  influence  of  those  Christian  colo- 
nies which  have  hitherto  been  their  best  earthly  protec- 
tion, and  in  connection  with  which,  alone  (so  the  history 
of  past  missions  in  Africa,  for  four  hundred  years,  plainly 
shows),  can  missionary  operations  be  carried  on  with 
permanent  success  ? 


COLERIDGE  AS  A  PHILOSOPHER  AND 
THEOLOGIAN* 


The  epithet  "  myriad-minded,"  which  Coleridge  applied 
to  Shakspeare,  is  applicable  to  himself.  He  possessed  an 
almost  universal  capacity.  The  elements  of  the  poet,  the 
philosoplier,  the  theologian,  the  critic,  and  the  artist,  were 
mingled  in  his  constitution.  The  only  important  branch  of 
human  knowledge  for  which  he  had  little  inclination  was 
mathematics;  and  even  this  had  its  equivalent,  in  that 
tendency  to  subtle  and  scholastic  ratiocination  so  character- 
istic of  him.  •'  I  have  known,"  said  Wordsworth,  "  many 
men  who  have  done  wonderful  thinf^s,  but  Coleridge  is 
the  only  wonderful  man  that  I  ever  knew."  This  breadth 
and  opulence  of  endowment  accounts,  in  part,  for  the 
diversity  of  judgment  passed  upon  him.  From  the  first 
appearance  of  this  author  down  to  the  present  time,  lie 
has  been  the  subject  of  analysis  and  criticism,  both  offen- 
sive and  defensive,  to  an  extent  unparalleled  in  the  in- 
stance of  any  other  literary  man  within  the  same  length 
of  time.  Critics  tliemselves  have  been  embarrassed  by  the 
imiversality  of  his  genius,  and  the  variety  of  his  prt)duc- 
tions,  and  have  generally  confined  themselves  to  one  side 

•  PiihlUhcfl  in  18.j2,  as  an  introduction  to  Harper's  edition  of  Colo- 
ridge' a  Works, 


273  COLERIDGE  AS   A   PIIIL080PHEK 

of  his  mind,  and  one  class  of  his  works.  The  result  is, 
that  one  gift  of  the  man  lias  been  extolled  to  the  deprecia- 
tion of  another.  Those,  and  they  are  tlie  great  majority, 
who  have  been  impressed  by  tlic  rich  and  exhaustless 
imagination  of  Colei-idge,  and  by  his  contributions  t(^  tiie 
liijlitcr  and  more  beautiful  forms  of  literature,  have  hi- 
mented  that  so  much  of  tlie  power  and  vigor  of  his  intellect 
should  have  been  enlisted  in  philosophy;  while  the  lesser 
number,  who  have  been  stimulated  and  strengthened  by  his 
profound  speculations  as  they  have  been  by  no  contempo- 
raneous English  writer,  have  regretted  that  the  poetic  na- 
ture prevented  that  singleness  of  aim,  and  unity  of  pursuit, 
which  might  have  left  as  the  record  of  his  life  a  philoso- 
phic system,  to  be  placed  beside  those  of  Plato  and  Kant. 
With  the  exception  of  the  clear  and  masterly  essay,  pre- 
fixed to  his  edition  of  the  Aids  to  liejlection,  by  the  late 
Dr.  Marsh,  wliose  premature  decease,  in  the  full  vigor  of 
his  powers,  and  the  full  maturity  of  his  discipline  and 
scholarship,  is  the  greatest  loss  American  philosophy  has 
yet  been  called  to  meet,  we  recollect  no  thoroughly  elabo- 
rated, and  truly  profound  estimate  of  the  philosophical 
opinions  of  Coleridge.  Tliere  are  two  reasons  for  this. 
In  the  first  place,  the  speculative  opinions  of  Coleridge 
were  a  slow  formation,  and  although  they  finally  came  to 
have  a  fixed  and  determined  character,  yet  durihg  the  first 
half  of  his  literary  career  he  was  undoubtedly  not  clear 
in  his  own  mind.  The  consecpience  therefore  is,  that  the 
philosophy  of  Coleridge  must  be  gathered  from  his  writ- 
ings, rather  than  quoted  from  them,  and  hence  the  diffi- 
culty, for  the  critic,  which  does  not  exist  in  the  instance 
of  a  rounded  and  finished  treatise,  to  determine  the  real 
form  and  matter  of  his  system.  In  the  second  place,  the 
literary  world  has  not  been  interested  in  the  department 
of  philosophy.     Those  problems  relating  to  the  nature  of 


A^T)   TUEOLOGIAIT.  273 

man,  the  universe,  and  God,  which  in  some  ages  of  the 
world  have  swallowed  up  in  their  living  vortex  all  the 
best  thinking  of  the  human  mind,  and  which  in  reality 
have  been  the  root  whence  have  sprung  all  the  loftiest 
growths  of  the  human  intellect,  have  been  displaced  by 
other  and  slighter  themes,  and  hence  the  English  philos- 
opher of  this  age  has  been  a  lonely  and  solitary  thinker. 
There  have  been  times,  when  the  striking  expression  of 
Ilazlitt  would  apply  with  literal  truth  to  the  majority  of 
the  literary  class :  "  Sir,  I  am  a  metaphysician,  and  noth- 
ing makes  an  impression  upon  me  but  abstract  ideas." 
But  the  age  in  which  one  of  the  most  subtle  and  profound 
of  English  minds  made  his  appearance,  and  cast  his  bread 
upon  all  waters,  was  the  least  abstract  in  its  way  of 
thinkinj;,  the  most  concrete  and  outward  in  its  method 
and  tendency,  of  any.  These  two  causes  combined  will 
account,  perhaps,  for  the  fact  that  while  the  ix)etical  and 
strictly  literary  productions  of  Coleridge  have,  on  the 
whole,  met  with  a  genial  reception  and  an  appreciative 
criticism,  his  philosophical  and  theological  opinions  have 
been  at  the  best  imperfectly  undei-stood,  and,  more  often, 
much  misunderstood  and  misrepresented.  AVhile,  there- 
fore, Coleridge  has  done  more  than  any  other  man,  with 
the  exception  of  Wordsworth,  to  form  the  poetic  taste  of 
the  age,  and  to  impart  style  and  tone  to  the  rising  genera- 
tion of  English  poets,  and  as  a  literary  man  lias  done  more 
by  far  than  any  other  one,  to  revolutionize  the  criticism 
of  the  age — wiiile,  in  this  way,  "he  has  been  melted  into 
the  risinj;  literatures  of  Encjland  and  America" — Coleridf]ro 
as  a  thinker  has  accomplished  less. 

And  yet  it  is  our  bclicjf,  that  in  this  latter  character,  in 
the  capacity  of  a  philosopher  and  theologian,  CoUn-idgo 
is  to  exert  liis  greatest  and  best  intlueucc.     After  his  im- 
mediate influence  upon  poetry  and  belles-lettres  uljuU  have 
12* 


274:  COLEKIDGE    AS   A    IMIILOSOPIIER 

disappeared  in  tlie  ever-shifting  development  of  national 
literature,  the  direction  and  impulse  which  his  speculative 
opinions  have  given  to  the  English  thinking  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  will,  for  a  long  time  to  come,  be  as  distinct 
and  unmistakable  as  the  gulf-stream  in  the  Atlantic.  It 
is  for  this  reason  that  we  shall,  in  this  introductory  essay, 
confine  our  remarks  to  the  philosophical  and  theological 
opinions  of  Coleridge  ;  and  it  will  be  our  aim,  as  fully  as 
our  limits  will  permit,  to  contemplate  him  as  a  thinker, 
the  main  tendenc}"  of  whose  thinking  is  in  the  right  direc- 
tion, and  the  general  spirit  and  inliuence  of  whose  system 
is  profound  and  salutary.  It  will  be  our  object  to  justify 
to  the  general  mind  that  respectful  regard  for  Coleridge's 
philosophical  and  theological  views,  and  that  confidence 
in  their  general  soundness,  which  is  so  marked  a  charac- 
teristic  of  that  lesser  but  increasing  public  who  have  been 
swayed  by  him  for  the  last  twenty  years.  In  doing  this, 
however,  we  mean  not  to  apjDcar  as  the  mere  passive 
recipient  of  his  opinions,  or  as  the  blind  adherent  of  each 
and  every  one  of  them.  How  far  we  are  disposed  to  look 
upon  Coleridge  as  an  original  thinker,  in  the  high  sense 
in  which  the  phrase  is  applied  to  such  philosophers  as 
Plato  and  Aristotle,  as  Des  Cartes  and  Kant,  and  to  what 
extent  we  think  he  may  be  regarded  as  the  author  of  a 
system,  and  the  head  of  a  school  in  philosophy,  will  appear 
in  the  course  of  our  remarks. 

And  we  would  here,  in  the  outset,  direct  attention  to 
the  manner  in  which  the  opinions  of  Coleridge  originated. 
It  is  unfortunate  that  no  biography  at  all  worthy  of  the 
man  is  in  existence ;  his  own  most  interesting,  but  most 
fragmentary  Biogi'ajpliia  Literaria  still  being  the  best 
account  of  his  intellectual  and  moral  history  yet  given  to 
the  world.  With  the  aid,  however,  to  be  derived  from 
the  biographical  materials  now  before  the  world,  a  care- 


AOT5   THEOLOGIAN.  275 

fill  stndy  of  his  writings  themselves  will  enable  the  dis- 
cerning student,  not  only  to  gather  the  general  system 
finally  adopted,  and  to  some  extent  developed  by  Cole- 
ridge, but  also  to  trace  the  origin  and  growth  of  it.  A 
full  account,  however,  of  the  inward  as  well  as  outward 
life  of  Coleridge,  by  a  congenial  mind,  would  be,  in  many 
respects,  the  richest  contribution  to  psychology  that  could 
be  made. 

For,  the  mental  development  of  Coleridge  was  eminently 
an  historic  process.  He  did  not,  as  do  the  majority  of 
thinking  men,  begin  with  the  same  general  system  and 
method  of  thought  with  which  he  ended,  but,  like  the  age 
in  which  he  lived  and  upon  which  he  impressed  himself, 
he  passed  by  a  slow  and  most  thorough  process  from  a 
sensuous  to  a  spiritual  system  of  speculation.  Bred  up  in 
the  reigning  empirical  philosophy  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, it  wa^only  gradually,  and  as  we  think,  through  the 
intermediate  stage  of  pantheism,  that  he  finally  came  out, 
in  the  maturity  of  his  powers,  upon  the  high  ground  of 
a  rational  and  Christian  theism.  In  like  manner,  and 
parallel  witli  this,  he  went  through  a  great  theological 
change.  Beginning  with  the  Socinianism  which,  at  the 
close  of  the  last  century,  existed  not  merely  in  an  inde- 
pendent and  avowed  form  of  dissent  from  the  Established 
church  of  England,  but  also  to  some  extent  in  the  clergy 
of  this  church  itself,  Coleridge,  partly  from  the  change  in 
liis  philosophic  views,  and  still  more  as  we  believe  from 
severe  inward  struggles,  and  a  change  in  his  own  religious 
experience,  in  the  end  embraced  the  Christian  system 
with  a  depth  and  sincerity,  a  humility  and  docility  of 
spirit  rarely  to  be  found  in  the  history  of  philosophers 
ami  poets,  of  whom  "  lew  are  chosen."  And,  linally,  the 
same  revolution,  the  same  change  for  the  better,  and 
growth,  appears   in    his  political  opinions.      Embracing 


270  COLERIDGE   AS   A   PIIILOSOniER 

with  "prond  precipitance  of  sonl"  the  cause  of  a  false 
freedom,  he  gradiuilly  moderated  his  views,  grew  conser- 
vative, and  in  tiie  end  settled  down  upon  the  principles 
of  the  majority  of  cultivated  Englishmen,  and  rested  in 
them. 

Now,  this  peculiarity  in  the  origin  and  formation  of  the 
s^'stem  of  opinions  finally  adopted  by  Coleridge,  and  by 
which  alone  he  ought  to  be  known  and  will  be  known  to 
posterity,  deserves  serious  and  candid  attention  for  several 
reasons.  In  the  first  place,  the  student  will  thereby  be 
saved  fi'om  the  errors  into  which  many  individuals,  and 
to  some  extent  the  age  itself,  have  fallen,  of  attributing 
to  Coleridge,  as  the  ultimate  and  fixed  view  of  his  mind, 
opinions  that  had  but  an  early  and  transient  existence  in 
it,  and  which  sustain  about  the  same  relation  to  his  final 
system,  that  the  pang  and  the  throe  do  to  the  living  birth. 
The  question  for  the  student  in  relation  to  Coleridge  is 
not :  What  did  he  believe  and  teach  on  this  point,  and  on 
that  point,  in  the  year  1800  ?  but,  What  did  he  teach  and 
believe  in  the  fulness  of  his  development,  and  in  the 
maturity  of  his  ripened  reason?  The  question  is  not: 
What  can  be  logically  deduced,  and  still  less  what  can  be 
twisted  and  tortured,  out  of  this  or  that  passage  in  his 
writings  ?  but,  What  is  unquestionably  the  strong  drift  and 
general  spirit  of  them  as  a  whole  ?  No  writer  more  needs, 
or  is  more  deserving  of  a  generous  and  large-minded 
criticism  than  this  one.  Without  reserve,  he  has  commu- 
nicated himself  to  the  world,  in  all  the  phases  of  experi- 
ence and  varieties  of  opinion  through  whi(;h  he  passed — in 
all  his  weaknesses  and  in  all  his  strength — and  such  an 
exposure  as  this  surely  ought  not  to  be  subjected  to  -the 
same  remorseless  inference  as  that  to  which  we  of  riglit 
subject  the  single  treatise  on  a  single  doctrine,  of  a  mind 
made  up. 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  277 

Again,  this  recognition  of  the  manner  in  which  the  opin- 
ions of  Coleridge  were  formed  will,  at  the  very  same  time 
that  it  opens  the  eye  to  all  that  is  true  and  sound  in  them, 
also  open  it  to  whatever  is  defective  or  erroneous.  How 
much  there  is  of  the  latter,  is  a  point  upon  which  each 
mind  must  judge  for  itself,  and  such  fi-eedom  of  judg- 
ment is  one  of  the  plainest  lessons  and  most  natural  fruits 
of  the  general  system  contained  in  these  volumes.  Provided 
only  the  judgment  be  intelligent  and  free  from  bigotry, 
we  believe  Coleridge  will  suffer  no  more  than  the  finite 
human  mind  must  suffer,  when  it  allows  itself  to  expatiate 
in  all  regions  of  inquiry,  and  attempts  to  construct  a  sys- 
tem of  universal  knowledo-e.  If  we  remember  the  im- 
mense  range  of  Coleridge's  studies  and  the  vastness  of  his 
schemes,  and  also  remember  that  though  he  had  not  the 
constructive  abilitv  of  an  Aristotle  or  a  IIc2:el,  and  did 
not  fairly  and  fully  realize  a  single  one  of  his  many  plans, 
he  yet  has  left  on  record  some  expression  of  his  mind, 
upon  nearly  or  quite  all  the  more  serious  and  important 
subjects  that  come  before  the  human  understanding,  wo 
shall  not  be  surprised  to  find  some  misconceptions  and 
erroi-s  in  his  multifarious  productions.  But,  these  mis- 
takes and  deficiencies  themselves  will  be  the  most  uner- 
ringly detected,  and  the  most  effectually  guai-dcd  against, 
by  him  who  is  able  to  view  and  criticise  them  from  the 
very  vantage-ground  itself,  to  which  his  mind  has  been 
lifted  by  the  principles  of  the  general  system  of  Cole- 
ridge. Having  made  tliese  "  the  fountain-light  of  all  his 
day,  the  master-light  of  all  liis  seeing,"  the  inquirer  after 
truth  will  1)C  able  to  detect  the  errors  to  which  the  human 
mind  is  always  liable,  and  which  in  the  }»resent  instance 
are,  as  we  verily  believe,  the  excrescences  merely. 

But,  however  it  may  liave  ])een  with  Coleridge  himself, 
it  is  plain  that  this  slow  process  of  renunciation  of  erruno- 


278  COLERIDGE    AS    A    rillLOSOrilEU 

ous  systems,  and  reception  of  more  correct  ones,  is  one  cf 
increased  interest  and  worth  for  the  inquirer.  Like  the 
lietractations  of  Augustine,  the  retractations  of  Coleridge, 
if  we  may  call  them  such,  have  a  negative  worth  almost 
equal  to  that  of  the  positive  statements  to  which  they 
lead.  This  rise  of  the  mind  through  doubts  and  preju- 
dices to  a  higher  and  more  rectified  position  ;  this  nearing 
the  centre  of  absolute  truth,  by  these  corrections ;  is 
always  one  of  the  most  instructive  passages  in  literary  his- 
tory. And  especially  is  it  so  in  the  case  of  Coleridge. 
We  see,  here,  one  of  the  most  capacious  and  richly-en- 
dowed minds  of  the  race,  after  a  slow  and  toilsome  course, 
first  through  materialism,  the  less  profound,  and  lastly 
through  pantheism,  the  most  profound  of  the  two  erro- 
neous systems  of  speculation  in  which  many  of  the  most 
gifted  intellects  contemporaneous  with  him  were  caught 
and  stopped,  ultimately  and  with  a  deep  and  clear  con- 
sciousness finding  rest  in  Christianity,  as  the  eternal 
ground  not  only  of  life  but  also  of  truth,  not  only  of  re- 
ligion but  also  of  philosophy.  Coleridge  lived  contem- 
poraneously with  that  most  wonderful,  and  for  the  specu- 
lative intellect  most  overmastering  of  all  mental  pro- 
cesses, the  pantheistic  movement  in  the  German  mind. 
But  while  he  was  at  one  period  of  his  life — the  heyday 
of  hope  and  aspiration — involved  in  it  so  far  as  to  say 
that  his  head  was  with  Spinoza,  we  find  him  freeing  him- 
self from  it,  at  an  after-period,  when  the  whole  continen- 
tal mind  was  drawn  within  reach  of  its  tremendous  sweep 
as  within  the  circles  of  a  maelstrom.  lie  worked  his  way 
through  and  out  of  a  system  the  most  stupendous  for  its 
logical  consistence,  and  the  most  fascinating  for  the  im- 
agination, of  any  that  the  world  has  yet  seen,  and  un- 
doubtedly stablishcd  and  settled  his  own  mind,  whether 
he  may  have  done  the  same  for  others  or  not,  in  the  Chris- 


AKD  THEOLOGIAN.  279 

tian  theism,  at  a  time  when  the  speculation  and  philoso- 
phizing of  his  (lay  were  fast  departing  from  the  centre  of 
truth,  and  drawing  nearly  all  the  inquiring  intellect  of 
Germany  and  France  with  them.  During  the  last  quarter 
of  his  life,  as  matter  of  fact,  Coleridge  was  the  oracle  and 
the  teacher  for  many  minds  who  were  seeking  rest  and 
finding  none  in  the  sphere  of  philosophy,  and  whether  he 
relieved  their  doubts  and  cleared  up  their  difficulties  or 
not,  no  one  of  them  ever  seems  to  have  doubted  that  he 
■was  clear  and  settled  in  his  own  mind,  and  that  though  he 
might  not  succeed  in  refuting  the  positions  of  atheism 
and  pantheism,  he  was  himself  impregnable  to  them. 
But,  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  many  minds  were 
strengtiiened  and  armed  by  him,  and  that  the  philosophy 
and  theology  of  England  is  at  this  very  moment  very  dif- 
ferent from  what  it  would  have  been,  had  the  thinking  of 
Coleridge  not  been  working  like  leaven  in  it.*  It  is  a  re- 
mai'k  of  Goethe,  that  our  own  faith  is  wonderfully  in- 
creased on  learnin(T  that  another  mind  shares  it  with  us  ; 
and  perhaps  one  of  the  strongest  reasons  for  a  wavering 
Boul,  for  believing  in  the  highest  truths  of  philosophy  and 
religion,  and  for  rejecting  the  skepticism  of  the  human 
understanding,  lies  in  such  examples  as  that  of  Coleridge. 
His  belief  was  not  hereditary  and  passive.  He  was  not 
ignorant  of  the  arguments  and  gigantic  schemes  which 
the  speculative  reason  has  constructed  in  opposition  to  the 
truth.  He  had  painfully  felt  in  his  own  being  the  diffi- 
culties and  doubts  to  which  man  is  liable,  and  to  which 

*  Even  the  recent  picture  of  Coleridge  by  Carlylo  unconsciously  be 
trays  a  sense  of  the  superiority  of  this  intellect,  in  reference  to  the 
deeper  problems  of  man's  existence  and  destiny;  while  Sterling  seems 
to  have  derived  from  the  oracle  at  Ilighgate,  most  of  that  struggling 
faith  in  God,  and  in  man's  freedom  and  immortality,  which  throws 
such  a  sadly-pleasing  air  over  his  biography. 


280  COLERIDGE   AS   A   PIlILOSOrilER 

the  aciitest  intellects  have  too  often  Bnccnmbed.  lie  had 
been  over  the  whole  ground  from  Pyrrho  to  Ilegel,  and, 
after  all  his  investigation,  saw  his  way  clear  into  the  re- 
gion of  Christian  revelation,  and  rested  there.  Surely, 
Buch  an  example  is  an  argument  and  an  authority  for  the 
doubting  mind.  All  that  Burke  *  says  of  the  relation  of 
the  culture  of  Montesquieu  to  the  Constitution  of  Eng- 
land, in  that  splendid  passage,  at  once  the  most  magniii- 
cent  rhetoric  and  the  strongest  logic,  applies  with  fuller 
and  far  deeper  force,  to  the  relation  of  an  endowment,  a 
discipline,  and  an  acquisition,  like  that  of  Coleridge,  to 
philosophy  and  Christianity. 

It  is  in  reference  to  this  historical  formation  and  enun- 
ciation of  the  opinions  of  Coleridge  that  this,  so  far  as  we 
know,  first  complete  collection  of  his  works  finds  its  justifi- 
cation and  recommendation.  It  has  been  said  in  respect 
to  the  publication  of  such  portions  of  his  writings  as  the 
Table  Talk  and  the  Literary  Itemains,  that  their  ex- 
tremely fragmentary  character  ought  to  exclude  them 
from  a  permanent  collection  of  a  great  writer's  works,  and 
that,  at  least,  they  should  be  subjected  to  a  revision  that 
would  strike  out  the  less  important  matter,  the  sometimes 
hastily  conceived  and  rashly  uttered  remark.  But,  in  the 
light  of  what  has  been  said,  the  value  of  every  jot  and 
tittle  of  what  Coleridge  and  his  friends  for  him  have  ever 
printed  is  clearly  apparent.  Not  that  everything  he  has 
left  on  record  has  high  intrinsic  worth ;  not  that  every- 
thing he  has  written  can  be  regarded  as  the  pure  product 
of  his  own  brain  ;  not  that  everything  contained  in  his 
writings  is  to  be  received  as  truth  by  the  reader  ;  but  each 
and  everything  has  value  and  interest,  if  for  nothing  else, 
as  exhibiting  the  course  and  development  of  his  intellect. 

*  Appeal  from  the  New  to  the  Old  Whigs,  sub  fine. 


AND  THEOLOGIAN.  281 

In  this  reference,  the  volumes  containing  the  Table  Talh 
and  Literary  Remains  are  of  the  highest  vahie,  not  only 
for  the  wonderful  pregnancy  and  saggestiveness  of  hia 
remarks  upon  all  things  human  or  divine,  bnt  for  the 
acquaintance  they  give  tlie  reader  with  the  interior  pro- 
cess and  change  going  on  within  him.  A  careful  perusal 
of  these,  in  connection  with  the  dates,  throws  great  light 
upon  the  history  of  Coleridge's  mind.  Aside,  however, 
from  the  importance  of  these  productions  in  this  respect, 
they  have  great  intrinsic  worth.  Besides  tlie  profound 
and  piercing  glances  into  the  highest  truths  of  metaphysi- 
cal philosojihy,  scattered  throughout  the  Literary  Re- 
mains, unquestionably  the  best  philosophy  of  art  and  of 
criticism,  and  the  very  best  actual  criticism  upon  the  great 
creative  minds  in  literature,  that  is  accessible  to  the  merely 
English  reader,  are  to  be  found  in  this  same  miscellany. 

It  is  of  course  impossible  in  an  essay,  to  attempt  a  criti- 
cism in  detail  upon  all  the  ^incipal  topics  npon  which 
Coleridge  has  philosophized,  even  if  we  were  competent 
to  the  task,  and  we  shall  therefore  confine  ourselves  to  a 
few  points  wiiich  we  think  are  deserving  of  consideration, 
and  which  will  tend  to  place  their  author  in  a  just  and 
fair  light  as  a  thinker. 

1.  And  in  the  fii'st  place,  we  think  this  author  is  to  be 
recommended  and  confided  in,  as  the  foremost  and  ablest 
English  opponent  of  pantheism.  We  do  not  speak  of 
formal  oj)position  to  this  tlie  most  j)owerful  and  success- 
ful of  all  systems  of  false  philosophy,  for  Coleridge  has 
left  on  record  no  professed  and  finished  refutation  of 
Spinoza  or  Schelling,  Init  we  allude  to  the  whole  plan  and 
structure  of  tlio  philosophy  which  he  finally  adopted  and 
defended,  as  in  its  own  nature  the  most  effectual  prevent- 
ive of  the  adoption  of  j)aiitheism,  and  the  best  positive 
remedy  for  it  when  adopted,  to  be  found  out  of  that  coun- 


282  COLERIDGE   AS    A   PUILOSOPnEB 

try  wliic-li  has  furnished  both  the  most  virulent  bane  and 
the  most  powerful  antidote.  The  distinctions  lying  at 
the  foundation  of  his  -vvholc  system,  if  recognized  and  re- 
ceived, render  it  impossible  for  the  recipient  to  be  diverted 
from  the  true  method  of  thinking,  into  one  so  illegitimate 
as  the  pantheistic,  to  say  nothing  of  their  incompatibility 
with  the  fundamental  positions  of  pantheism.  No  inge- 
nuity whatever,  for  example,  can  amalgamate  the  doctrine, 
of  which  Coleridge  makes  so  much,  of  an  essential  distinc- 
tion between  nature  and  spirit,  with  the  doctrine  of  the 
siobstantia  u?ia  et  luiica.  If  the  natural  is  of  one  sub- 
stance, and  the  spiritual  is  of  another ;  if  the  distinction 
is  not  merely  phenomenal  but  metaphysical,  and  no  possi- 
ble heishtenina:  and  clarification  of  the  former  can  result 
in  the  latter;  then  there  is  a  gulf  between  nature  and 
spirit,  between  matter  and  mind,  that  cannot  be  filled  np. 
This  distinction,  moreover,  not  only  permits,  but  naturally 
conducts  to,  the  conceptionej^f  an  uncreated  and  a  created 
substance — conceptions  that  are  precluded  by  the  assump- 
tion which  the  pantheist  supposes  he  must  make  in  order 
to  introduce  unity  into  the  system  of  the  universe,  that 
there  is  ultimately  only  one  substance,  uncreated,  infinite, 
and  eternal.  The  very  moment  that  the  materialism 
which  is  to  be  found  in  ideal  pantheism,  notwithstanding 
its  boast  of  spirituality,  as  really  as  in  material  pantheism, 
is  eliminated  and  precluded,  by  the  recognition  of  a  differ- 
ence in  kind  between  nature  and  spirit,  the  inquirer  is 
left  alone  with  the  self-determined,  jpersonal  spirit,  the 
contrary  and  antithesis  of  nature  and  of  matter,  with  its 
reason  and  its  conscience,  and  thereafter  may  be  safely 
left  to  answer  the  questions  :  Is  tliere  an  uncreated  per- 
sonal God  ?  am  I  a  created  and  accountable  bein,^  ?  am  I 
destined  to  a  conscious  immortality  of  existence  %  But  if 
this  distinction  is  denied,  and  nature  and  spirit,  matter 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  283 

and  mind,  the  world  and  God,  are  all  one  essence  and 
substance,  and  the  distinctions  denoted  by  these  terms  are 
merel}'  formal,  subjective,  and  phenomenal,  then  such 
questions  as  the  above  are  absurd  and  impossible. 

We  are  'aware,  that  in  these  pantheistic  systems  the  ^ 
terms  nature  and  spirit,  the  world  and  God,  are  as  freely  -^ 
employed  as  in  theistic  systems,  and  that  in  the  last  and  , 
most  remarkable  of  them  all,  that  of  Hegel,  philosophy 
itsejf^  is  divided  into  the  philosophy  of  nature  and  the 
philosophy  of  spirit.  But,  on  the  hypothesis  of  a  one  sole  ^ 
substance,  the  subject-matter  of  each  must  be  one  and  the 
same,  and  the  inquirer  in  the  latter  department  is  only 
investigating  a  mere  modification  of  the  same  thing  which 
he  has  just  investigated  in  the  former.  Metaphysics  are 
nothing  but  physics,  and  vice  versa.  lie  has  risen  into  no 
essentially  higiier  sphere  of  being  or  of  cognition,  by  pass- 
ing from  the  philosophy  of  nature  to  that  of  spirit,  as  he 
understands  and  employs  these  terms,  because  he  has  not 
passed  into  any  essentiallij  different  sphere.  The  vice  of 
the  whole  system  is  in  the  fatal  error,  the  pantheistic  pos- 
tulate, at  the  outset.  There  is  and  can  be  but  one  sub- 
stance, and,  notwithstanding  all  the  modification  it  may 
undergo  in  infinite  space  and  everlasting  time,  it  remain-s 
but  one  substance  still.  But,  this  vice  is  impossible  in  any 
system  of  pliilosopliy,  or  in  any  method  of  thinking,  that 
starts  with  the  fundamental  hypothesis  of  a  difference  in 
kind  between  the  substance  of  the  luitural  and  the  sub- 
stance of  the  K2)iritual,  or  between  matter  and  mind.* 

Now,  the  earnestness  and  force  with  which  this  distinc- 
tion, so  fundamental  to  theism  and  preclusive  of  panthe- 
ism, is  insisted  upon  by  Coleridge,  particulaily  in  the  ^1/^/6' 

*  We  use  matter  in  a  Homcwhat  loose  way  in  this  connection,  in  order 
to  illustrate  the  techuical  uhc  of  the  word  nature  as  the  contrary  of 
Bi>irit,  and  not  Ijccau.so  it  contains  all  that  is  meant  by  nature. 


284  coLERrooE  as  a  rniLOSOPiiEB 

to  Refection,  the  most  complete  and  self-consi stent  of  liia 
strictly  })hilosopliic  writings,  will  strike  every  reflecting 
reader.  It  is  not  merely  formally  laid  down,  but  it  enters 
so  thoroughly  into  his  whole  method  of  philosophizing, 
that  it  can  be  eliminated  from  it  only  as  oxygen  can 
from  atmospheric  air,  by  decomposition  and  destruction. 
And  especially  are  all  pantheistic  conceptions  and  tenden- 
cies excluded  by  the  distinction  in  question,  when  it  is 
further  considered  that  the  constituent  element  in  the 
spiritual  is  freedom,  as  that  of  the  natural  is  necessity.     Li 

1.  nature,  as  distinguished  from  spirit,  there  is  no  absolute 

\^,beginning,  no  first  start,  consequently  no  self-motion,  and 

consequentl}'  no  responsibility.     Nature,  says  Coleridge,  is 

V  an  endless  line  of  antecedents  and  consequents,  in  con- 
tinuous evolution.  To  be  in  the  middle  of  an  endless 
series,  is  the  characteristic  of  a  thing  of  nature,  says 
Jacobi,  *  between  whose  statements  regarding  this  general 
distinction,  in  the  last  part  of  his  Von  gottlichen  Dingen, 
and  those  of  Coleridge  in  the  Aids,  there  is  a  striking 
coincidence.  In  the  mental  and  spiritual  realm,  on  the 
contrary,  this  law  and  process  of  continuity  by  which  we 
are  hurried  back  from  the  effect  to  its  foregoing  cause, 
and  froTn  this  foregoing  cause  to  its  foregoing  cause,  and 
so  backward  forever  into  an  infinite  series,  and  can  never 
reach  a  point  where  a  movement  has  no  antecedent,  because 
it  really  begins,  by  5e//-movement — that  point  where  a 
responsible  movement  is  first  found,  and  which  is  to  be 
reached,  not  by  a  gradual  ascent  within  the  sphere  of 
the  natural  to  the  highest  degree  of  the  same  kind,  but  by 
a  leap  over  the  gulf  that  divides  the  two  great  domains 
from  each  other — this  law  of  continuous  cause  and  effect, 
we  say,  is  excluded  from  the  sphere  of  the  spiritual,  by 

*  Werke,  UI.  401.  Leipsic  Ed.  1810. 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  285 

virtue  of  its  differing  in  Miid  from  the  natural ;  by  virtue 
of  its  being  of  anotlier  substance,  and,  consequently,  of 
having  an  essentially  different  function  and  operation  from 
nature  and  matter.     It  is  true,  that  we  speak  of  a  continu- 
ous evolution  and  development,  and  properly  too,  within 
the  realm  of  spirit  as  well  as  of  nature,  but  the  continuity  in 
this  instance  is  not  continuity  without  beginning,  or  the 
continuity  of  the  law  of  cause  and  effect,  which  is  the 
only  law  in  the  natural  world,  but  continuity  that  has  a 
true  beginning  or  tirst  start,  or  the  continuity  of   self- 
determination.     Development  in  the   mental  or  spii'itual 
world — that  of  the  human  will,  for  example — begins  with 
the  creation  of  the  will,  and  proceeds  freely  and  responsi- 
bly so  long  as  the  will  exists.     The  development  or  move- 
ment, in  this  instance,  is  not,  like  that  of  a  movement  in 
nature,  a  mere  and  pure  effect.     If  it  were,  a  cause  must 
be  found  for  it  antecedent  to,  2L\\^other  than  it ;  and  this 
would  bring  the  movement  out  of  the  sphere  of  the  spirit- 
ual or  ^("//'-moved,  into  the  sphere  of  nature  and  matter, 
and    make  it  a  necessitated  unit  in  an  endless  series  of 
movements,  to  the  destruction  of  all  responsibility.     But 
we  have  no  disposition  to  repeat  what  has  been  so  clearly 
expressed  by  Coleridge  on  this  point,  and  reaffirmed  and 
explained  by  Dr.  Marsh  in  his  preliminary  essay  to   the 
Aids.     The  distinction  itself,  never  more  important  than 
at  this  time  when  materialism  and  naturalism  is  so  rife, 
cannot,  after  all,  be  taught  in  words,  so  well  as  it  can  bo 
thought  out.     It  is  a  matter  of  direct  perc^cption,  if  per- 
ceived at  all,  as  must  be  the  case  with  all  a  2>rioi'i  and 
fundamental  positions.     Man's    immediate   consciousness 
is  the  most  convincing,  because  the  most  vital  nl   all  evi- 
dence, that    mind  is  not  a  uK^de  of   matter,  or  spirit   a 
])hase  of  nature,  or  voluntary  agency  a  necessitated  series 
uf  concatenated  causes  aJid  effects. 


286  COLERIDGE   AS   A   PIIILOSOI'IIKK 

Now,  on  the  pantheistic  system,  there  is  really  nothing 
but  nature ;  there  is  nothing  absolutely  mental  or  spiritual. 
The  one  substance,  of  which  all  tilings  are  modifications 
and  developments,  is  nothing  but  a  single  iniinite  nature. 
From  eternity  to  eternity,  the  process  of  emanation  and  evo- 
lution goes  on,  and  the  result  is,  all  that  was,  is,  and  is  to 
come.  Though  the  terms  God  and  man,  spirit  and  nature, 
mind  and  matter,  may  be  employed,  yet  the  objects  denoted 
by  them  are  of  one  and  the  same  substance,  and  therefore 
have  the  same  primary  attributes.  The  history  of  the 
universe  is  the  history  of  a  single  Being,  and  of  one,  merely 
natural,  necessitated  process,  slowly  and  blindly  evolving 
from  that  dark  ground  of  all  existence,  the  one  aboriginal 
substance.  There  is  no  creation  out  of  nothino:  of  a  new 
and  secondary  substance,  but  merely  the  shaping  of  the 
old  and  only  substance.  There  is,  except  in  a  phenomenal 
and  scenic  way,  no  finite  being.  The  All  is  one,  and  in- 
finite. The  self -consciousness  of  the  finite  subject  which 
the  pantheist  recognizes  does  not  help  the  matter.  This 
consciousness  itself  is  but  a  mockery,  by  which  a  modifi- 
cation of  the  one  and  only  Being  is  made  to  suppose  for  a 
little  time  that  it  has  a  truly  individual  and  responsible 
existence.  The  only  reality,  on  this  scheme,  is  a  single 
universal  nature  with  its  innumerable  processes,  and  all 
the  personal  self-consciousness  that  is  recognized  by  it  is  a 
deceptive  and  transitory  phenomenon,  for  the  reason,  that 
there  is,  in  an  essence  which  is  not  simply  under  and 
through  all  things,  but  is  all  things,  no  basis  for  distinct 
])ersonality,  free  self-determination,  and  permaiient  self- 
consciousness,  either  in  God  or  man.  For,  there  must  be 
logical  coherence  between  attributes  and  their  substance, 
and  it  is  absurd  to  endow  with  the  attributes  of  freedom 
and  responsibility  a  substance,  or  a  subjective  modification 
of  a  substance,  whose  whole  history  is  in  fact  a  necessi- 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  287 

tated  and  blind  evolution.  In  order  to  an  infinite  person- 
ality, there  must  be  an  infinite  personal  Essence  or  Being. 
In  order  to  finite  personality,  there  must  be  a  finite  per- 
sonal essence  or  being.  And  these  two  cannot  be  or  be- 
come one  Essence  or  Being,  without  destroying  the  pecu- 
liar basis  for  the  peculiar  consciousness  belonging  to  each. 
Pantheism  has,  therefore,  no  right  to  the  terms  of  theism, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  the  objects  denoted  by  them  are 
not  recognized  by  it  as  metaphysically  and  absolutely 
real.  Pantheism  is  but  a  j^hilosophy  of  nature,  and  as 
matter  of  fact  it  has  accomplished  more,  or  rather  has 
done  least  injury  to  the  cause  of  truth  and  true  philosophy, 
when,  as  in  the  case  of  the  earlier  system  of  Schelling,  it 
has  been  confined  mainly  to  the  sphere  of  nature.  It 
would  be  unjust  to  deny  that  the  pantheism  of  Schelling 
has  done  something  toward  destroying  the  mechanical 
theory  and  view  of  nature  and  natural  science  ;  while  the 
fact  that  he  proceeded  no  farther  with  it  in  its  application 
to  the  i)hilosophy  of  spirit  and  of  intelligence,  and  is  under- 
stood to  have  renounced  it  in  his  late  attempt  to  construct 
a  system  that  will  solve  the  problems  of  intellectual  and 
spiritual  existence,  seems  to  corroborate  the  position  here 
taken,  that  pantheism  can  never  at  any  time,  or  under  any 
of  its  forms,  rise  out  of  the  sphere  of  nature,  because  it, 
in  reality,  recognizes  the  existence  of  nothing  but  nature. 
It  has  been  asserted,  we  arc  aware,  and  porliaps  it  is 
still  to  some  extent  believed,  that  the  matured  and  final 
{)liilo8o])iiy  of  Coleridge  is  itself  liable  to  the  charge  of 
pantheism.  The  wai-m  admiration  with  which  he  re- 
garded Schelling,  and  the  reception  at  one  time  of  Schel- 
ling's  doctrine  of  the  original  identity  of  subject  and 
objc'ct,  have  given  some  ground  for  the  assertion  and 
belief.  We  sliall,  therefore,  dwell  brietly  upon  this  point 
of  Coleridge's  lelatirm  to  Schelling,  because,  while  we  are 


288  COLERIDGE   A8   A   PHILOSOPHER 

clear  tliat  the  earlier  system  of  this  philosopher,  whatever 
his  later  system  shall  prove  to  be,  is  nothing  but  Spino- 
zisin,  we  are  equally  clear  that  Coleridge  freed  liimself 
from  it,  as  decidedly  as  he  did  from  the  mechanical  and 
sensuous  philusopliy  of  his  youthful  days. 

After  all  the  study  and  reflection  which  Coleridge  ex- 
pended upon  the  systems  of  speculation  that  sprang  up  in 
Germany  after  that  of  Kant,  it  is  very  evident  that  his 
closest  and  longest  continued  study  was  applied  to  Kant 
himself.  After  all  his  wide  study  of  philosophy,  ancient 
and  modern,  the  two  minds  who  did  most  toward  the  for- 
mation of  Coleridge's  philosophic  opinions  were  Plato  and 
Kant.  From  the  Greek,  he  derived  the  doctrine  of  ideas, 
and  fully  sympathized  with  his  warmly-glowing  and  poetic 
utterance  of  philosophic  truths.  From  the  German,  he 
derived  the  more  strictly  scientific  part  of  his  system — the 
fundamental  distinctions  between  the  understanding  and 
the  reason  (with  the  sub-distinction  of  the  latter  into  specu- 
lative and  practical),  and  between  nature  and  spirit. 
With  him  also,  he  sympathized  in  the  deep  conviction  of 
the  absolute  nature  and  validit}^  of  the  great  ideas  of  God, 
freedom,  and  immortality,  of  the  binding  obligation  of 
conscience,  and,  generally,  of  the  supremacy  of  the  moral 
and  pi'actical  over  the  purely  sjjeculative.  Indeed,  any 
one  who  goes  to  the  study  of  Kant,  after  having  made 
himself  acquainted  with  the  writings  of  Coleridge,  will  be 
impressed  by  the  spontaneous  and  vital  concurrence  of 
the  latter  with  the  former — the  heartiness  and  entireness 
with  which  the  Englishman  enters  into  the  method  and 
system  of  this,  in  many  respects,  greatest  philosopher  of 
the  modern  world.  For,  to  say  that  Coleridge  was  the 
originator  of  the  distinctions  above-mentioned,  in  the  sense 
that  Kant  was,  is  to  claim  for  him  what  will  never  be 
granted  by  the  scholar ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  to  say 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  289 

that  Coleridge  was  a  mere  vulgar  plagiary,  copying  for 
the  mere  sake  of  gratifying  vanity,  is  not  to  be  thonght  of 
for  a  moment.  The  plagiary  is  always  a  copyist  and 
never  an  imitator,  to  use  a  distinction  of  Kant,*  also 
natnralized  among  ns  by  Coleridge.  There  is  no  snrer 
test  of  plagiarism,  therefore,  than  a  dry,  mechanical,  and. 
dead  method,  bv  which  the  material  handled  becomes  a 
mere  cajnit  mortuuni.  But  who  would  charge  such 
a  method  upon  Coleridge  ?  Whatever  else  may  be  laid  to 
his  charge,  there  is  no  lack  of  life,  and  life,  too,  that 
organizes  and  vitalizes.  Much  of  that  obscurity  charged 
upon  him  is  owing  to  an  excess  of  life  ;  the  warm  stream 
gushes  out  with  such  ebullience  that  it  cannot  be  confined 
to  a  channel,  but  spreads  out  on  all  sides  like  an  inun- 
dation. Had  there  been  less  play  of  living  power  in  his 
mind,  he  would  have  been  a  more  distinct  thinker  for  the 
common  mind,  and,  as  we  believe,  less  exposed  to  the 
charge  of  plagiarism.  This  power  of  sympathy  with  the 
great  minds  of  the  race,  in  all  departments  of  mental 
effort — this  ojjulence  and  exuberance  of  endowment, 
coupled  with  an  immense  range  of  reading,  and  a  brood- 
ing contemplation  that  instantaneously  assimilated  every 
thing  brought  into  his  mind — put  him  uiicoiisclousJij,  and 
in  ajnte  of  hi jn self,  into  communication  with  all  the  best 
thinking  of  the  race;  and  hence  it  is,  that  while  the 
beginner  in  philosophy  finds  the  M'ritings  of  Coleridge  full 
to  bursting,  with  principles,  and  germs  of  truth,  freshly 
jtroscntcd  and  entirely  new  to  him,  his  after-study  of  the 
great  thinkers  oi  anctient  and  of  modern  times  comjiols 
liim  to  deduct  from  Colerid^re's  merits  on  the  score  ot"  al)- 
solute  discovery  and  invention,  thou^rh  not  an  iota  from 
them  on  the  score  of  originality  iu  the  sense  of  original 

*  Urthoilskraft,  §  32. 
13 


290  COLKRIDOE    AS    A    PllILOSOniKU 

treatment.  It  is  for  this  reason,  that  tlie  writlnj^s  of  thia 
author  are  the  very  best  preparatory  exercise  for  the  stu- 
dent, before  he  launches  out  upon  tlie  "  minjhty  and 
mooned  sea"  of  general  philosopliy.  One  who  has  thor- 
oughly studied  them  is  well  prepared  to  begin  his  philo- 
sopliical  studies  ;  and,  we  may  add,  no  one  who  has  once 
mastered  this  author  can  possibly  stop  with  him,  but  is 
m-ged  on  to  the  study  of  the  greatest  and  choicest  philoso- 
phic systems  themselves. 

But,  returning  to  the  relation  of  Coleridge  to  Schelliug, 
we  think  that  it  is  very  evident  that  his  reception  of  the 
doctrine  of  the  identity  of  subject  and  object,  of  which 
he  gives  an  account  in  the  Blographia  Literaria  that  is 
mainly  a  transfusion  from  Schelling,  was  temporary.  In 
the  year  1834,  we  find  hira  speaking  thus  of  this  account : 
"The  metaphysical  disquisition  at  the  end  of  the  first 
volume  of  the  Blographia  Literaria  is  unformed,  and 
immature  ;  it  contains  the  fragments  of  the  truth,  but  it 
is  not  fully  thought  out."*  This,  taken  in  connection 
with  the  general  drift  of  Coleridge's  annotations  upon 
Schelling,  contained  in  the  appendix  to  the  latest  edition 
of  tlie  Biographia  Literaria,  we  think  is  nearly  equiva- 
lent to  a  distinct  verbal  renunciation  of  tlie  theoi*y  in 
question,  f     At  any  rate,  his  rejection  of  tlie  system  of 

*  Table  Talk,  Works,  VI.,  520. 

•)•  "  Spite  of  all  the  superior  airs  of  the  Natur-Philosophen,  I  confess 
that  in  the  perusal  of  Kant  I  breathe  the  air  of  good  sense  and  logical 
understanding,  with  the  light  of  reason  shining  in  it  and  through  it : 
while  in  the  physics  of  Schelling  I  am  amused  with  happy  conjectures, 
and  in  his  theology  I  am  bewildered  by  positions  which  in  their  first 
sense  are  transcendental  (iiberlliegend),  and  in  their  literal  sense  scan- 
dalous." Blographia  Literaria,  Appendix,  \Vork.s,  III. ,j  70!). — "The 
Spihozmn  of  Schelling's  system  first  betrays  itself."  Blographia  Liter- 
aria, Appendix,  Works,  III.,  707. — "Strange  that  Fichte  and  Schel- 
ling both  hold  that  the  very  object  which  is  the  condition  of  self-con- 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  291 

Spinoza  is  expressed  often  and  with  emphasis  in  his  writ- 
ino-s,  *  althouo-h,  in  common  with  all  wlio  have  made 
themselves  acquainted  witli  the  works  of  this  remarkable 
mind,  he  expresses  himself  in  terms  of  high  admiration 
respecting  the  loftiness  and  grandeur  of  many  of  his  sen- 
timents and  reflections,  even  on  subjects  pertaining  to 
ethics  and  religion.  But  what  is  Schelling's  identity  of 
subject  and  object  in  their  ultimate  ground,  but  the  re- 
appearance of  the  one  substance  of  Spinoza  with  its  two 
modifications,  thouo;ht  and  extension  ?  Tiie  theory  which 
teaches  that  the  subject  contemplating  and  the  object 
contemplated  are  in  reality  but  one  substance,  and  that 
the  consciousness  we  have  of  things  without  ns  "  is  not 
o'dy  coherent,  but  identical  and  one  and  the  same  thing, 
■with  our  own  immediate  self-consciousness,"  f  plainly 
dues  not  differ  in  matter,  however  it  may  in  form,  from 
the  theory  of  the  substantia  icna  et  unlea.  "What  is 
gained  by  saying  that  Spinoza  started  with  an  unthinking 
substance,  but  that  the  system  of  Identity  starts  with  a 
thinking  subject,  %  when  the  position  that  One  is  All,  and 
All  is  One  is  the  fundamental  postulate  of  both  systems 
alike?     This  position,  common  to  both,  renders  both  sys- 

BciousnesB  is  nothing  but  the  self  itself,  by  an  act  of  free  self-limita- 
tion. P.  S.  The  above  I  wrote  a  year  ago  ;  but  the  more  I  reflect,  the 
more  convinced  I  am  of  the  grosH  materialism  which  lies  under  tke 
whole  sj'Htem."  IJiographia  Literaria,  Aj)[)cudix,  Works,  III.,  7i'l.— 
This  last  remark,  it  deserves  to  be  noticed,  is  a  note  upon  Schelling's 
lirif  fe  liber  Dograatismus  und  Criticismus  :  an  attack  upon  the  Kan- 
tcan  philo.sophy.  The  camestiiCiHs  with  which  Coleridge,  in  those  an- 
notation.s  upon  Schelling,  sides  with  Kant,  shows  that  neither  his  head 
nor  hi.s  heart  was  with  the  syslom  of  Identity,  at  the  time  when  hi 
wrote  them. 

*  Aids  to  Reflection,  Wurk.s,  I.,  211.  Table  Talk,  Works,  VI.,  3j1, 
302. 

f  I{iograi)hia  Litoraria,  Works,  III.,  34 J. 

X  Hegel's  riiiinomcuologie,  s.,  14. 


202  COLERIDGE   AB  A  rniLosornER 

toms  alike  pantheistic,  because  it  precludes  that  duality — 
that  difference  i)i  substance  between  God  and  the  woild, 
and  that  distinction  between  an  uncreated  and  a  created 
essence  or  being — which  must  be  recopjuized  by  a  truly 
theistic  philosophy.  The  only  difference  between  the  two 
systems  is  adjective :  Spinozism  being  material,  and  the 
system  of  Identity  ideal  pantheism.  If  the  postulate  in 
question  were  limited,  in  its  application,  to  the  sphere  of 
the  finite  alone,  there  might  be  a  shadow  of  reason  for 
saying  that  the  doctrine  of  Identity  does  not  annihilate 
the  deity  as  other  than  the  world.  If  an  idcntit}'^  of  sub- 
stance were  aftirmed  only  between  the  human  mind  and 
the  material  universe,  a  supramundane  deity,  other  than 
and  above  all  this  finite  unity,  might  still  be  affirmed 
without  self-contradiction ;  though,  even  in  this  case,  this 
limited  annihilation  of  the  essential  distinction  between 
nature  and  spirit  would  result  in  its  universal  and  abso- 
lute annihilation,  so  soon  as  it  became  apparent  that  the 
finite  spirit,  though  not  of  the  same,  is  yet  of  sirrhilar  sub- 
stance with  the  Intinite  Spirit.  But  there  is  no  limitation 
of  this  sort  in  the  system,  neither  can  there  be,  for  it  is  its 
toast  that  it  reduces  the  All  to  a  One.  It  is  the  univer- 
sal subject  and  the  universal  object  between  which  an 
identity  of  substance  is  affirmed. 

But,  we  lay  much  stress  upon  the  indirect  evidence  in 
e  case.  It  is  perfectly  plain,  as  we  have  already  re- 
marked, that  the  philosophy  of  Kant  is  the  modern  sys- 
tem with  which  Coleridge  finally  and  most  fully  sympa- 
thized. If  he  is  to  be  called  after  any  one  of  the  great 
founders  of  philosophical  systems  among  the  moderns, 
Coleridge  was  a  Kantean.  Not  that  he  pushed  his  inqui- 
ries no  further  than  Kant  had  gone,  for  there  is  abundant 
evidence  on  many  a  page  of  the  Literary  Remains,  that 
the   highest   problems   of   Clu'istianity,    during   the   last 


t 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  293 

period  of  his  life,  were  themes  constantly  present  to  his 
deep  and  brooding  reflection,  and  tliat  whatever  it  shall  be 
found  that  he  actually  accomplished,  in  the  way  of  dis- 
tinct statement,  in  the  unfinished  work  wliich  was  to  put 
the  crown  ui)on  his  literary  life,  he  did  satisfy  his  own 
mind  upon  these  subjects,  and  was  himself  convinced  of 
the  absolute  rationality  of  the  highest  mysteries  of  the 
Christian  faith.  Yet  the  groundwork  of  all  these  pro- 
cesses, the  psycholoGcy  and  metaphysics  from  which  they 
all  started,  was  unquestionably  the  theistic  method  of 
Kant,  and  not  the  pantheistic  method  of  his  successors 
Kven  suj^posing  that  Coleridge  at  one  time  may  have  gono 
BO  far  as  to  regard  the  system  of  Schelling  (with  the  still 
more  remarkaljle  one  of  Hegel,  he  does  not  seem  to  have 
been  acquainted,  for  we  do  not  recollect  any  allusion  to 
him  throughout  the  whole  of  his  works)  as  a  positive  and 
natural  advance  upon  that  of  Kant,  there  is  sufficient 
reason  for  saying  that  he  saw  the  error,  and  fell  back 
upon  the  old  position  of  Kant,  as  the  farthest  point  yet 
reached  in  the  line  of  a  true  philosophic  progress,  regard- 
ing the  systems  that  sprang  up  afterward  as  an  illegiti- 
mate j)rogeny.  And  in  so  doing,  he  only  exhibited  in  an 
individual,  the  very  sairie  process  that  lias  gone  on,  and  is 
still  going  on  in  the  Germanic  mind  itself.  There  was  a 
time,  when  even  the  serious  theist  was  inclined  to  regard 
with  favor  at  least,  that  wondrous  evolution  of  the  theo- 
ntic  brain,  the  three  systems  of  P^ichte,  Schelling  and 
Jl('"-cl,  as  a  natural  and  normal  development  from  Kan- 
teanism,  and  so  to  n^gard  the  four  systems  as  being  in  one 
and  the  same  straight  line  of  advance.  It  is  true,  that  at 
the  very  time  wlien  these  later  systems  were  rising  into 
existence  "like  an  exhalation,"  a  iii;in  like  -lacobi  was 
found,  to  protest  against  the  deviation  and  erroi-,  and  to 
proclaim,  with  a  serious  and  deep-toned  eloquence  that 


294:  COLERIDGE   AS   A   PIIILOSOPIIEB 

will  ever  endear  him  and  his  opinions  to  every  serious- 
minded  scholar  who  feels  that  his  own  mental  repose,  with 
that  of  the  retlectinii;  mind  generally,  is  bound  up  in  tiio 
ideas  of  theism,  that  these  later  systems  were  not  oenuine 
offshoots  from  Kant,  but  wild  grafts  into  him.  But,  at 
the  time,  the  national  mind  was  caught  in  the  process,  and 
it  was  not  until  the  speculative  enthusiasm  had  cooled 
d(jwn,  and  the  utter  barrenness  of  this  method  of  philoso- 
phizing, so  far  as  all  the  deeper  and  more  interestiiig 
pr()l)lems  of  philosophy  and  religion  are  concerned,  had 
revealed  itself,  that  men  began  to  see  that  all  the  move- 
ment had  been  off  and  away  from  tlie  line  of  true  prog- 
ress, and  that  the  thinker  who  would  make  real  advance 
must  join  on  where  Kant,  and  not  Hegel,  left  off. 

In  thus  siding  ultimately  with  the  Kantean  Philosophy, 
rather  than  with  the  system  of  Identity  that  succeeded  it, 
Coleridire  had  much  in  common  with  Jacobi.  Indeed,  it 
seems  to  us  that,  speaking  generally,  Coleridge  stands  in 
nearly  the  same  relation  to  English  philosophy,  that 
Jacobi  does  to  that  of  Germany,  and  Pascal  to  that  of 
France.  Keither  of  these  three  remarkable  thinkers  has 
left  a  strictly  scientific  and  finished  system  of  philosophy, 
but  the  function  of  each  was  rather  an  awakening  and 
suo-crestive  one.  The  resemblance  between  Coleridge  and 
Jacobi  is  very  striking.  Each  has  the  same  estimate  of 
instinctive  feelings,  and  the  same  religious  sense  of  the 
pre-eminence  of  the  moral  and  spiritual  over  the  merely 
intellectual  and  speculative.  Each  clings  with  the  same 
firm  and  lofty  spirit  to  the  ideas  of  theism,  and  plants 
himself  with  the  same  moral  firmness  upon  the  imperative 
decisions  of  conscience  aiid  the  moral  reason.  But,  in  no 
respect  do  they  harmonize  more  than  in  their  thorough 
rejection  of  the  pantheistic  view  of  things  ;  of  that  mere 
naturalism  which  swallows  up  all  personality,  and,  there- 


AXD   TIIEOLOGI^V:^.  295 

by,  all  morality  and  religion.  In  reading  Jacobi's  Von 
gottlichen  Dingeyi,  one  is  strack  Avith  the  great  similarity 
in  conception,  and  often  in  statement,  with  remarks  and 
trains  of  discussion  in  the  Aids  to  Reflection.  The  co- 
incidence in  this  case,  it  is  very  plain  to  the  reader,  does 
not  arise,  as  in  the  case  of  Coleridge's  coincidence  with 
Schelling,  from  a  previons  study  and  mastery  of  a  prede- 
cessor, Ijut  from  sustaining  a  similar  relation  to  Kant,  to- 
gether with  a  deep  sense  of  the  vital  importance  and 
al)Soliite  truth  of  theism  in  philosophy.  The  coincidence 
in  this  case  is  not  a  mere  genial  reception,  and  fresh  trans- 
fusion, of  the  thought  of  another  mind,  but  an  indepen- 
dent and  original  shoot,  in  common  with  others,  from  the 
one  great  stock,  the  general  system  of  theism.  Add  to 
this,  that  both  Coleridge  and  Jacobi  were  close  students 
of  Plato,  and  by  mental  constitution  were  alike  predis- 
])osed  to  the  moulding  influence  of  this  greatest  philoso- 
])hic  mind  of  the  pagan  world,  and  we  have  still  another 
ground  and  cause  for  the  resemblance  between  the  two. 

Now,  in  this  resemr)lance  with  Jacobi,  we  find  still 
aiKjther  indirect  proof  of  the  position,  that  Coleridge's 
a<loption  of  the  s^-stem  of  Schelling  was  temporary,  and 
that  he  returned,  with  still  deeper  faith  and  clearer  in- 
sight, to  the  theistic  system.  For,  no  mind  of  the  age  in 
which  he  lived,  or  of  any  age,  was  more  decidedly  and 
determinedly  theistic,  than  Jacobi.  His  Letters  to  Men- 
(lelsxohn  iijwn  the  Rijxteiii  of  Sjtinoza,  and  still  more,  be- 
cause more  regularly  constructed,  his  treatise  on  Dinine 
Things  and  tlteir  Jieveiation,  arc  among  the  most  genial, 
(certainly,  and  we  think  among  the  most  impressive,  and 
pi-actically  effective,  oi  all  attacks  u])on  the  pantheistic 
naturalism.  Wc  know  that  it  was  fashionable,  espccialljf 
when  the  hard  logical  ]»roce8ses  of  llcgcdiauism  wero 
more   influential  and  authoritative  as  mcjdels  than    they 


296  COLERIDGE   AS   A   PHILOSOPHER 

now  are,  to  decry  tlic  metliod  of  Jacobi  as  unscientilie, 
and  to  endeavor  to  wealcen  the  force  of  his  views,  by  tlio 
assertion,  that  his  is  the  mere  "philosophy  of  feelin*^." 
But  there  is  reason  to  believe,  that  this  same  thinker, 
thongli  deficient  as  must  be  acknowledi^ed  in  the  logical 
and  systematizing  ability  of  Kant  and  llegel,  has  done  a 
giant's  work,  in  aiding  to  bring  the  German  mind  back 
to  tlie  position  of  theism  in  philosophy.  His  influence, 
healthful  and  fruitful,  is  to  be  traced  through  the  whole 
of  the  spiritual  school  of  theologians.  If  there  is  any  one 
of  the  many  philosophers  of  Germany,  who  is  regarded 
with  admiration  and  veneration  by  this  class  of  reflecting 
men — a  class  which  shares  largely  in  the  disposition  of  its 
great  head,  Schleiermacher,  to  establish  theology  upon  an 
independent  basis,  and  thereby  divorce  it  altogether  from 
philosophy — it  is  Jacobi ;  and  this,  principally  on  the 
ground  of  his  earnest  religious  abhorrence  of  that  specu- 
lation of  the  mere  miderstanding  which,  under  the  name 
of  philosophy,  has  so  invariably  ended  in  the  overthrow 
of  the  foundations  of  ethics  and  religion. 

"We  have  dwelt  the  longer  upon  this  point  of  Cole- 
ridge's relation  to  Schelling,  because  we  believe  it  to  bo 
the  fact  that  the  philosophic  system  which  he  finally 
adopted,  and  which  is  the  prominent  one  in  his  writings, 
is  irreconcilable  with  the  system  of  Identity,  and  if  so, 
that  it  is  of  the  highest  importance  that  the  fact  be  known 
and  acknowledijed.  Moreover,  the  establishment  of  the 
position  we  have  taken  acquires  some  additional  interest, 
in  relation  to  the  charge  of  plagiarism  which  has  of  late 
been  frequently  urged.  This  charge  becomes  of  little 
im2:)ortance,  so  far  as  the  question  of  Coleridge's  original 
jjower  as  a  philosoijher  is  concerned,  so  soon  as  it  appears 
that  this  reception  of  the  views  of  Schelling  was  only  one 
feature  in  the  temporary  pantheistic  stage  of  liis  mental 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  297 

liistory,  and  of  still  less  iiiiportanee,  when  it  is  further 
considered,  that  Schelling  himself  is  entitled  to  but  syaall 
credit  on  the  score  of  absolute  invention — the  philosophy 
of  Spinoza  being  "  the  rock  and  the  quarry,"  on  and  out 
of  which  the  whole  system  of  Identity  was  constructed. 
Indeed,  in  leaving  this  system,  Coleridge  has  been  imi- 
tated by  Schelling  himself,  if,  as  there  is  reason  to  be- 
lieve, the  later  system  of  this  philosopher  is  a  renuncia- 
tion of  his  earlier,  and  not  a  mere  development  of  it. 
How  far  either  of  these  two  minds  possessed  that  highest, 
and  most  truly  original  philosophic  power — the  power  of 
forming  an  era  in  the  history  of  philosophy,  by  carrying 
the  philosophic  mind  onward  through  another  stadium  ii* 
its  normal  course  and  development — remains  yet  to  be 
seen.  This  point  cannot  be  settled,  until  the  publication 
of  the  Logosojjfda  of  Coleridge,  and  the  recent  system  of 
Schellinor. 

The  influence,  however,  of  this  pantheistic  system  upon 
Coleridge  was  for  a  time  undoubtedly  great,  harmonizing  as 
it  did  with  the  imaginative  side  of  his  nature,  and  promis- 
ing, as  it  always  has  done,  to  reduce  all  knowledge  to  a 
unity — that  promise  always  so  impressive  and  fascinating 
for  the  human  intellect,  and  which  moreover  addresses, 
though  in  this  instance  bv  a  false  method,  one  of  the 
necessary  and  organic  wants  of  reason  itself.  Besides  the 
disquisition  in  tlin  twelfth  chapter  of  the  Bhxjrapliui 
Liieraria^  there  are  some  statements  in  the  Friend,  * 
i('sj)ecting  the  mutual  relations  of  nature  and  the  mind  of 
man,  and  trains  of  reflection,  that  spring,  as  it  seems  to 
us,  from  the  ])antheistic  intuition,  and  wiiich,  run  out  to 
their  legitimate  consequences,  would  end  in  a  mere  natur- 
alism, of  which  all  of  Coleridge's  more  matured,  and  more 

♦  See  EHsnys  X.  and  XI.  of  the  Friend,  Works  II. ,  448-  472. 
13* 


298  COLERIDGE    AS   A    I'llILOSOI'IIER 

Blrictly  scientific  views  are  a  profound  and  powerful  re- 
futation^ and  against  which,  his  own  moral  and  spiritual 
consciousness,  certainly  for  the  last  twenty  years  of  his 
life,  Avas  one  loud  and  solemn  protest.  * 


*  Mrs.  II.  N.  Coleridgfc,  in  a  note  to  Chapter  IX.  of  the  Biographia 
Literaria,  remarks  that  her  lather,  ''soon  after  the  composition  of  the 
Biojjraphia  Literaria,  became  dissatisfied  with  Schelling's  system  of 
philosophy,  considered  as  a  fundamental  and  comprehensive  scheme, 
and  objected  to  it  as  essentially  pantheistic."  She  then  adds,  that  she 
is  "not  aware,  however,  that  he  at  any  time  altered  or  set  aside  the 
doctrine  of  Schelling,  put  forth  in  the  Biographia  Literaria,  on  nature 
and  the  mind  of  man,  with  their  mutual  relations  ;  or,  indeed,  that  he 
discovered  any  positive  error,  or  incompatibility  with  higher  truth,  in 
such  parts  of  Schelling's  system  as  are  adopted  in  the  Biographia  Liter- 
aria, and  which  he  I  elicved  himself,  in  the  main,  to  have  anticipated." 

It  is  difficult  to  reconcile  this  last  statement  with  the  preceding  re- 
mark, that  Coleridge  finally  regarded  the  system  of  Schelling  as  "  es- 
sentially pantheistic."  The  doctrine  of  Schelling,  on  "the  mutual 
relations  of  nature  and  the  mind  of  man,"  which  Coleridge  has  rejiro- 
duced  in  Chapter  XII  of  the  Biographia,  is,  that  there  is  originally  an 
identity  of  substance  between  them,  and  that  both  are  only  different 
modifications,  or  phases,  of  one  and  the  same  substance  or  being. 
According  to  this  scheme,  commonly  called  the  system  of  Identity,  that 
which  in  one  of  iis  aspects  is  nature,  in  the  other  aspect  is  spirit ;  and 
it  is  the  peculiar  power  and  i  rerogative  of  the  philosophic  as  distin- 
guished from  the  spontaneous  or  common  consciousness,  to  perceive 
this  identitj",  and  thus  to  reduce  back  all  the  raanifoldncss  in  the 
spheres  of  both  nature  and  spirit,  or  matter  and  mind,  to  the  absolute 
.•md  primary  unity  whence  it  all  emanated,  and  which  it  all  is — to  the 
one  substance,  in  the  phraseology  of  Spinoza  ;  to  the  absolute  subject- 
object,  in  the  phraseology  of  Schelling  ;  to  the  absolute  conception,  in 
the  phraseology  of  Hegel. 

Now,  we  see  not  on  what  possible  ground  Schelling  can  be  charged 
with  pantheism,  if  not  on  that  of  this  doctrine  of  the  original  identity  of 
subject  and  object, — a  doctrine  which  Schelling  applied  to  the  universal 
object  and  the  uuivcrsal  subject;  asserting  identity  of  substance  not 
merely  between  nature  and  the  mind  of  man,  Imt  between  nature  and 
all  mind.  It  is  certainly  the  ground  upon  which  both  his  and  Hegel's 
83'steni8  are  now  generally  regarded  as  i)antheistic,  and  is  the  doctrine  by 
which  the  later  German  philosophy  differs  from  the  earlier  toto  gencre. 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  299 

111  this  connection,  also,  it  may  be  proper  to  speak  of 
the  objection  made  to  the  system  of  Kant  himself,  that  it 
is  essentially  skeptical.     This  objection  is  founded  upon 


Kant,  with  Des  Cartes,  affirmed  the  old  doctrine  of  a  duality  between 
nature  and  spirit,  matter  and  mind.  He  left  the  subject  and  object 
apart  from  each  other  when  contemplated  back  of  cousciousuess,  and 
in  their  original  metaphysical  relations.  And  it  is  the  standing  objec- 
tion of  the  system  of  Identity  to  the  Kantean  philosophy,  that  it  is 
dualistic  ;  that  it  does  not  reJuce  all  thing.s,  both  natural  and  si^iritual, 
material  and  mental,  to  unity  of  essence  ;  while  it  is  the  constant  re- 
ply of  the  latter,  that  there  can  be  no  reduction  of  all  things  to  this 
speculative  and  pantheistic  unity,  for  the  good  reason  that  there  is 
no  such  unitj'.  God  and  the  universe  are  not  one  substance.  Mind 
and  matter  differ  in  essence.  In  other  words,  the  dogmatism  of  the 
pantheist  affirming  a  single  substance,  of  which  both  God  and  the  world 
(so  called;  arc  aUke  modifications,  is  met  by  the  dogmatism  of  the  theist 
affirming  a  supramundane  and  spiritual  Being  who  creates  the  world 
out  of  nothing, — thus  affirming  a  primary  and  a  secondary  substance, 
the  latter  wananent  in  the  former,  it  is  true,  but  not  emanent  from  it, 
or  identical  with  it.  And  the  question  as  to  which  of  these  two  dog- 
matisms is  legitimate  ;  which  of  these  two  postulates — that  of  one,  or 
of  two  substances — is  valid  ;  must  be  settled  by  a  p.sj-^chological  method. 
That  postulate  is  the  true  one  which  harmonizes  best  with  the  various 
forms  of  human  consciousness,  especially  those  relating  to  ethics  and 
religion ;  which  best  explains  them  all ;  and  best  solves  the  various 
problems  that  arise  in  human  cousciou.sness. 

It  may  be  said,  and  it  has  been,  that  the  system  of  Identity  admits 
distinctions  in  the  one  universal  sub.stance,  and  only  denies  division  or 
literal  duality.  IJut,  a  mere  distinction  in  one  and  the  same  essence 
does  not  constitute  another  essence  or  being.  To  illustrate  by  refer- 
ence to  the  Christian  doctrine  of  the  trinity — the  distinctions  that  sub- 
Kist  in  the  one  single  essence  of  the  Godiiead  do  not  constitute  three 
ettHenccH  or  beings.  The  distinctions  are  consubstantial,  and  arc  in,  and 
of,  one  HiiltKtancf:  only.  I'nlesH,  therefore,  tlio  di.Htinction  between  God 
and  the  worlfl  is  founded  in  an  absolute  duality  of  essence ;  unless  the 
di.itiitction  is  6.K\o  koX  &K\o,  and  not  merely  6.Wos  Koi  &\\os ;  it  is  no 
Huch  distinction  as  tlicism  adinns,  and  religion  must  aflirin,  between 
the  Creator  and  creation.  It  would  be  impo.ssiblc  that  the  self-conscioua- 
nesH  of  God  and  that  of  man  should  bo  ditfercnt  and  diverse  from 
each  other  (and  they  must  be,  in  order  to  the  existence  of  the  rclatiou.i 


300  COLERIDGE    AS   A    nilLOSOrHER 

the  fact,  that  the  Critical  philosophy  denies  thepossibilit}', 
vnthin  a  certain  sjjhere,  of  an  absohite  knowledge  on  the 
part  of  the  huniau  mind,  because  its  knowledge  is  con- 
formed to  forms  and  modes  of  cognition  that  pertain  to 
the  human  understanding,  and  are  peculiar  to  it.  The 
thing  hi  itself  is  not  known,  but  only  the  thing  as  it  ap- 
pears  to  the  finite  intelligence.  An  absolute  knowledge, 
true  intrinsically,  and  irrespective  of  the  subjective  laws 
of  human  intelligence,  is  therefore  impossible  within  t/tis 
sphere. 

If  this  theory  were  to  be  extended  over  the  whole  do- 


and  affections  of  religion),  if  the  essence  which  underlies  each,  when 
traced  to  its  lowest  metaphysical  ground,  is  one  and  identically  the 
same  essence. 

We  are  aware  of  the  alleged  difficulty  of  accounting  for  a  knowledge 
of  the  objective  world,  on  the  dualistic  hypothesis  that  there  is  no  iden- 
tity of  substance  between  it  and  the  subjective  intelligence,  and  of  the 
confidence  with  which  it  is  assumed  that  the  mystery  of  cognition  van- 
ishes, as  soon  as  it  is  shown  that  all  consciousness  is  in  reality  self-con- 
sciousness. But,  self-consciousness  is  more  mysterious  and  difficult  to 
explain,  than  mere  consciousness.  It  is  easier  to  apprehend  how  the 
ego  can  cognize  an  object  that  is  other  than  the  ego,  than  to  apprehend 
how  the  ego  can  cognize  the  ego  ;  even  as  it  is  easier  to  understand 
how  the  eyeball  can  see  a  tree,  than  to  understand  how  the  eyeball 
can  see  the  eyeball.  How  the  great  problem  will  ultimately  be  solved, 
and  how  much  Coleridge  and  Schelling  have  contributed  toward  the 
true  solution,  will  V»e  answered  variously.  But  it  seems  to  us,  thati 
neither  of  these  minds  ultimately  rested  in  the  doctrine  of  Identity,  as 
the  means  of  arriving  at  the  true  theory  of  perception.  Schelling  is 
understood  to  have  renounced  his  earlier  system,  and  to  have  verged 
toward  theism,  in  his  later  views.  And,  certainly,  all  such  teaching  of 
Coleridge  as  that  the  moral  reason  is  the  highest  form  of  reason,  and 
that  no  merely  speculative  decisions  can  set  aside  those  of  conscience, 
are  in  the  vein  and  spirit  of  the  Kautean  philosophy,  and  a  protest 
against  a  theory  that  obliterates  all  the  fixed  lines  and  immutable  dis- 
tinctions of  theism.  Such  teaching  could  not  have  come  from  a  mind 
included  in  the  slowly-evolving,  and  blindly-groping  processes  of  the 
philosophy  of  Identity. 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  301 

main  of  knowledge,  spiritual  as  well  as  natural,  it  is  plain 
that  it  would  end  in  universal  skepticism.  If,  for  instance, 
the  knowledi'e  which  the  human  mind  has  of  rii;ht  and 
wrong,  of  its  own  freedom  and  immortality,  of  the  divine 
attributes  and  the  Infinite  One  in  whom  they  inhere,  is  no 
real  and  absolute  knowledge,  but  is  merely  subjective,  the 
foundations  of  all  morals  and  relif'ion  would  sink  out  of 
sight  immediately,  and  the  human  mind  would  be  afloat 
upon  the  sea  of  doubt,  conjecture,  and  denial.  This  was 
the  identical  skepticism  against  which  Soci-ates  and  Plato 
waged  such  serious  and  successful  war.  But  Kant,  by  hi?, 
distinction  of  the_speculative  and  practical  reason,  in- 
tended to  confine^  and  actually  does  confine  this  doctrine 
of  a^subjective  and  conditional  knowledge  to  the  sphere  of 
the  natural  and  tlie  sensuous.  AV^ithin  this  sphere,  there 
is  no  absolute  knowledge,  for  the  good  reason  that  there 
is  no  absolute  object  to  be  known.  Absolute  and  neces- 
sary truth  is  not  within  the  domain  of  nature,  but  above 
it  altogether,  in  the  domain  of  spirit.*  All  things  that 
are  sensuous,  and  cognized  by  the  understanding  with  its 
subjective  forms,  are  in  continual  flux  ;  and  even  in  re- 
gard to  the  immaterial  princij^lcs  beneath  them,  even  in 
regard  to  the  laws  of  luiture  themselves,  we  cannot  con- 
ceive of  their  being  of  such  a  necessary  and  immutable 
quality,  as  we  cannot  but  conceive  moral  and  spiritual  laws 
and  realities  to  be.  For,  they  are  creations  ex  nihilo,  and, 
as  sucli,  are  only  one  out  of  the  infinitely  various  manners 
in  wliich  the  Divine  Mind  can  express  itself  in  a  material 
universe.  The  wiiole  domain  of  nature  and  of  matter  is 
itnclf  but  a  means  to  an  end,  and  thcrcfoie  camiot,  like 
the  domain  of  the  spiritual  which  is  an  end,  have  absolute 


♦  See  Cudwortb'B  Immutuble  Morality,  pasttira  ;  where  this  same  vievf 
iH  mauitaiacd. 


303  COLEKIDGE   AS    A    rillLOSOniER 

and  necessary  characteriHtics,  and  therefore  cannot  be  the 
object  of  an  absolnte  knowledge.  All  this  domain  of  the 
conditional,  therefore,  legitimately  comes  before  the  un- 
derstanding, with  its  categories  or  subjective  forms  of  cog- 
nition. 

But,  there  is  another  and  a  liio;lier  realm  than  that  of 
nature,  of  another  substance,  and  therefore  not  merely  a 
higher  development  of  the  natural.  The  moral  and  spirit- 
ual world,  as  it  is  not  subject  in  its  functions  and  operations 
to  the  law  of  cause  and  effect,  but  is  the  sphere  of  free- 
dom, so  it  is  not  coo;nizable  under  the  forms  of  the  under- 
standing,  but  by  the  direct  intuitions  of  reason.  It  is  no 
mere  afterthought,  therefore,  as  has  been  charged,  but  a 
most  strictly  philosophic  procedure  in  the  system  of  Kant, 
by  which,  after  the  whole  domain  of  the  natural  and  the 
conditioned  has  been  legitimately  brought  within  the  ken 
of  the  understanding,  the  domain  of  the  spiritual  and  the 
absolute  is  assigned  to  a  higher,  even  the  very  highest 
faculty  of  the  soul,  as  the  proper  organ  and  inlet  of  knowl- 
edge regarding  it.  It  is  because  such  an  object  of  knowl- 
edge as  God,  e.  g.,  cannot  be  truly  known  by  being  brought 
within  the  limitations  of  time  and  space,  and  under  the 
categories  of  quantity,  quality,  &c.,  that  Kant  affirmed  the 
existence  of  a  power  in  nuui,  not  hampered  by  these  sub- 
jective forms  of  the  understanding,  through  which,  by  an 
act  of  dii-ect  sjuritual  intuition,  this  highest  of  all  objects 
is  known,  ^ot fully  and  completely  known,  as  some  have 
falsely  asserted  that  he  taught ;  for,  the  object  in  question 
is  infinite,  and  reason  in  man  is  finite  ;  but  truly  and  abso- 
lutely known,  so  far  as  the  cognition  does  extend.  Kant, 
unlike  Fichte,  Schcllingand  llegel,  never  claimed  for  the 
finite  reason  of  man  that  lAenttude  of  knoM'ledge  which 
belongs  only  to  the  infinite  reason,  but  he  did  afiirm,  that 
so  far  as  the  reason  in  man  does  have  any  knowledge  of 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  SOS 

God,  and  of  spiritual  objects  generally,  it  has  an  absolute  ^ 
and  not  relative  knowledtre.  God  is  not  thus,  for  one  / 
nian's  reason,  and  thus,  for  another  man's,  as  a  color  is  ' 
tluis,  for  the  sense  of  one  man,  and  thus,  for  the  sense  of 
anotlier ;  but,  so  far  as  his  infinite  fulness  is  known  by 
the  finite  reason,  it  is  known  as  it  really  is,  and  is  there- 
fore known  in  the  same  way  by  all  rational  beings,  and  is 
the  same  to  all.  The  same  is  true  of  all  the  ideas  and^ 
objects  of  the  spiritual,  as  distinguisJied  from  the  natural " 
world.  Li  the  former,  the  human  mind  has  an  absolute, 
i.  e.  unconditionally  true  knowledge,  so  far  as  it  has  any 
at  all  (for  there  may  be  no  development  of  reason,  and  no 
use  of  the  faculty  at  all),  while  in  the  latter,  its  knowledge 
is  merely  subjective  and  conditional.  Hence  the  promi- 
nence, the  supremacy,  assigned  in  Kant's  system  tx)  the 
moral  or  practical  reason.  This  is  reason  in  its  highest 
and  sul>stantive  form,  and  no  decisions  of  any  other  fac- 
ulty of  the  human  soul  have  such  absolute  authority  re- 
specting moral  and  spiritual  problems,  as  distinguished 
from  ijroblems  of  nature  and  matter,  as  those  of  tliis  fac- 
uhy.  It  stands  over  against  the  moral  and  spiritual  world, 
])recisely  as  the  five  senses  stand  over  against  the  world  of 
Fcnse,  and  there  is  the  same  iininediateness  of  knowledire 
in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other.  In  the  phrase  of  Jaccjbi, 
reason,  i.e.  the  moral  reason,  is  the  sense  for  tlie  supernat- 
ui-al,*  and  therefore  we  have,  in  facit,  the  same  kind  of 
evidence  for  the  reality  of  sjiiritnal  objects,  that  we  have 
for  that  of  objects  of  sense — the  evidence  of  a  direct  in- 
tuition, 

Tlicre  is,  thcrofoi'c,  no  room  for  skepticism,  on  this  sys- 
teni,  within  tlie  only  spiiere  in  which  tlie  i)hilosoj)licr  and 
the  theologian  have  any  vital  interest  in  keeping  it  out — 

*  Von  den  gottlichen  Dingcn,  Beilagc  A. 


30-i  COLERIDGE    AS   A   rillLOSOPIIEB 

the  sphere  of  the  moral  and  spiritual.  However  subjcc« 
tive  and  relative  may  be  our  knowledo-c  of  the  material 
and  natural,  coinin<]j  to  us  as  it  docs  tliroui;-h  the  mecJian- 
ism  of  the  understanding,  and  shaped  by  it  into  conform- 
ity with  our  subjective  structure  as  creatures  of  sense 
and  time,  our  knowledge  of  the  supernatural,  so  far  as 
■\ve  have  any  at  all,  is  absolute  and  unconditional.  We 
may  doubt  in  regard  to  the  real  nature  of  matter,  but  we 
cannot  doubt  in  regard  to  the  real  nature  of  ria^lit  and 
wrong.  We  may  grant  that  our  knowledge  of  an  object 
of  sense  is  conditioiuil,  and  not  absolutely  reliable,  but  we 
may  not  grant  that  our  knowledge  of  a  moral  attribute  of 
God  is  conditional,  and  not  absolutely  reliable.  The  skepti- 
cism of  the  human  mind,  on  this  system,  is  confined  to  the 
lower  and  less  important  sphere  of  nature,  while  the  "  con- 
fidence of  reason,"  the  faith  that  is  insight  and  the  insight 
that  is  faith,  can  exist  only  in  relation  to  the  moral  and 
spiritual  world  ;  only  in  relation  to  moral  and  sjjiritual 
objects. 

Kant's  treatise  on  the  practical  reason,  therefore,  though 
from  the  very  nature  of  the  subject  (it  being  that  mode  of 
reason  which  is  intuitional,  and  freest  from  the  complexity 
of  logical  forms)  not  so  artificially  constructed  as  that  upon 
the  theoretic  reason,  and  seemingly  occupying  a  humbler 
place  in  his  general  system,  should  be  regarded  as  the 
sincere  and  serious  expression  of  his  real  views  upon  the 
highest  form  of  reason,  and  upon  the  very  highest  themes 
of  reflection.  Certainly,  no  one  can  peruse  those  lofty  and 
emujbling  enunciations,  respecting  the  great  practical  ideas 
of  God,  freedom,  and  immortality,  and  those  grand  and 
swelling  sentiments  regarding  the  nature  of  duty  and  the 
moral  law,  that  are  contained  in  this  treatise,  without  a  deep 
conviction  that  this  part  of  Kant's  system  was  by  no  means 
an  afterthought,  or  contrivance  to  save  himself  from  uni- 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  305 

versal  skepticism.*  If  the  cold  and  passionless  intellect 
of  the  sa^e  of  Konigsberg  ever  rises  into  the  sphere  of 
feelinor  and  ever  exhibits  anvthins^  of  that  real  enthu- 
siasni  bv  which  a  living  knowledge  is  always  accompanied 
and  manifested,  it  is  in  this,  the  most  practical  and  serious- 
toned  of  all  his  productions.  And  if  it  is  objected,  as  it 
has  been,  that  this  knowledge  of  the  spiritual  is  rather  a 
belief,  than  a  knowledge,  and  that  the  function  of  this  so- 
called  ])ractical  reason  is  that  of  feeling  rather  than  scien- 
tific cognition,  the  objection  must  be  acknowledged  to 
have  ioi'CQ,  ])rovided,  that  that  only  is  scientific  which  is. 
the  result  of  logical  deductions,  and  that  alone  is  know 
icdge  which  comes  mediately  into  the  mind  by  processes 
of  comparison  and  generalization.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
if  it  is  proper  to  call  that,  knowledge,  which  by  virtue 
of  its  iinmediateness  in  the  rational  consciousness  is  a 
most  orio^iual  and  intimate  union  of  hoth  cognition  and 
feeling,  of  hoth  reason  and  faith,  of  both  the  scientific  and 
the  moral,  then,  the  knowledge  in  question  is  the  abso- 
lutely highest  of  all,  for,  it  coTitains  the  elements  of  both 
forms  of  perception  ;  and  is  the  most  truly  scientific  of 
all,  because,  in  the  form  of  first  principles,  it  lies  at 
the  foundation  of  all  the  processes  of  logic,  and  all  the 
structures  of  science. 

But,  whatever  may  have  been  the  relative  position  of 
the  })ractical  reason  and  its  correspondent  ideas,  in  the 
general  system  of  Kant,  or  in  Kant's  own  mind,  no  reader 
cf  Coleridgo  can  doubt  that  for  him,  and  his  system,  this 
f<»rm  of  reason  and  these  ideas  are  paramount.  Coleridgo 
had  a  special  interest  in  developing  this  part  of  philoso- 
l)liy,  and  establishing  an  absolute  validity  for  the  decisiona 


*  Kant  himself  iwserts  this.     Sec  Kritik  der  practischcn  Vcrnunffc,  s. 
110.  IvOHCukniuz'H  Ed. 


30G  COLEKIDGE    AS    A    rillLOSOPHEB 

of  the  moral  reason  and  conscience,  superadded  to  that 
M'hich  actuated  Kant.  TJie  former  had  received  into  his 
soul  the  peculiar  doctrines  of  Christianity,  while  the  latter, 
so  I'ar  as  we  have  had  the  means  of  judging,  stood  upon 
the  position  of  the  serious-minded  deist,  and  was  impelled 
to  the  defence  of  the  foundations  of  ethics  and  natural 
religion,  by  no  other  motives  than  such  as  actuated  minds 
like  the  emjieror  Marcus  Aurelius  an-d  Lord  Herbert  of 
Cherbury.  Coleridge  had  more  than  a  merely  moral  in- 
terest, in  saving  the  fundamental  principles  of  ethics  and 
religion  from  an  all-destroying  skepticism,  or  an  all-ab- 
sorbing naturalism,  in  philosophy.  And  hence  the  posi- 
tiveness,  and,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word,  the  dogma- 
tism, with  which  he  iterates  and  reiterates  his  affirmation, 
that  "  religion,  as  both  the  corner-stone  and  the  l<ey-stone 
of  jnorality,  must  have  a  moral  origin  :  so  far  at  least,  that 
the  evidence  of  its  doctrines  cannot,  like  the  truths  of  ab- 
sti'act  science,  be  Mdiolly  independent  of  the  wilW  * 

Now,  as  the  defender  and  interpreter  of  this  decidedly 
and  profoundly  tlieistic  sj'stem  of  philosophy,  we  regard 
tlie  works  of  Colei'idge  as  of  great  and  growing  wortli, 
in  the  present  state  of  the  educated  and  thinking  world. 
It  is  not  to  be  doubted  that  pantheism  is  the  most  formid- 
able opponent  which  truth  has  to  encounter  in  the  culti- 
vated and  reflecting  classes.  We  do  not  here  allude  to 
the  formal  reception  and  logical  defence  of  the  system, 
so  much  as  to  that  pantheistic  way  of  thinking  which  is 
stealing  into  the  ligliter  and  more  imaginative  si)ecies  of 
modern  literature,  and  from  them  is  passing  over  into  tlie 
principles  and  opinions  of  men  at  large.  This  popularized 
naturalism — this  naturalism  of  polite  literature,  and  of 
literary  society — is   seen  in  the   lack  of  that  depth  and 

*  Biographia  Literaria,  Works,  Til.  297. 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  307 

Btreno-th  of  tone,  and  that  heartiness  and  robustness  of 
temper,  which  characterize  a  mind  into  which  the  per 
sonality  of  God  and  tlie  responsibility  of  man  cut  sharply, 
and  wliich  does  not  cowardly  shrink  from  a  severe  and 
salutary  moral  consciousness.  There  is  no  remedy  for 
this  error  of  the  brain  and  of  the  heart,  but  in  the  resolute 
and  positive  affirmation  (worthy  of  the  name  of  virtue 
wherever  found)  of  a  distinction  in  essence  between  the 
natural  and  the  spiritual,  with  its  implication  of  a  su- 
preme and  infinite  Spirit,  the  first  cause  and  last  end  of 
l)oth  the  finitely  spiritual  and  the  natural.  For  all  phi- 
losophy, false  as  well  as  true,  must  begin  with  an  affirma- 
tion— a  postulate  upon  which  all  else  rests,  and  which  is 
itself  unsusceptible  of  proof,  because  it  is  the  ground  of 
|)roof  for  all  other  affirmations.  Pantheism  itself  starts 
in  dogmatism  :  starts  with  postulating,  not  proving,  the 
existence  of  its  one  only  substance.  It  ha?  an  interest  in 
so  doing.  The  evidence  of  this  its  so-called  first  truth 
"  is  not  altogether  independent  of  the  will.''''  Here  too, 
the  voluntary  and  the  theoretic,  the  practical  and  the 
6j)ecnlative,  are,  though  illegitiuiately,  in  one  act  of  the 
intellect.  In  respect  therefore  to  the  logical  necessity, 
tiie  comjMilsory  necessity,  of  its  first  premise,  we  see  not 
the  advantage  which  it  boasts  ot"  having  over  a  theism 
which  docs  not  reject  all  aid  from  the  moral  side  of  the 
human  soul,  or  rci^ard  all  evidence  as  not  trulv  scientiiic 
and  absolute  that  is  not  of  the  nature  of  uuithcmatical. 
Siiu;e,  tiien,  there  must  be  a  postulate  to  start  from,  in 
eitlier  or  any  case,  let  the  individual  mind  iniilate  that 
justifiable  postivity,  that  ration.il  dogmatism,  <;f  the  gene- 
ral human  mind  (wiiich  the  soundly  philosoi)hi/cing  mind 
only  re[t('ats  with  a  ftdler  and  dislinclcr  consciousness  of 
tlie  meaning  and  contenf.B  of  the  atlirnuition)  by  which 
the  absolute  existence  of  u  personal  supra-mundane  God 


308  COLERIDGE    AS    A    PlIILOSOPITER 

is  alTirmcd.  This  Being  styles  Iliinsell"  tlie  I  AM — the  self- 
aHirnied  self-existence ;  and  what  is  left  for  the  human 
reason  but  to  imitate  this  positive  aflirmation,  and  stead- 
fasti}"  to  assert  that  "he  is,  and  is  the  rewarder  of  tliera 
that  diligently  seek  him." 

In  driving  the  hesitating  mind  over  its  hesitancy,  and 
urging  it  up  to  that  moral  resoluteness,  which  is  at  the 
same  time  the  most  rational  freedom,  whereby  it  takes 
sides  with  the  instincts  of  reason  and  the  convictions  of 
conscience,  rather  than  with  the  schemes  and  fictions  of 
the  speculative  miderstanding  and  the  unethical  deduc- 
tions from  them,  we  esteem  the  writings  of  Coleridge 
to  be  of  great  worth.  Apart  from  the  influence  of  the 
example  of  this  most  learned  and  most  contemplative 
mind,  the  clearness  and  profundity  with  which  the  doc- 
trines of  theism  are  enunciated,  and  their  mutual  relation 
and  dependence  explained,  is  admirably  fitted  to  propa- 
gate the  living  process  of  insight  and  of  faith  into  the 
mind  of  the  student.  ^  For  it  is  one  great  merit  of  this*^ 
(  author,  that  wdien  his  views  are  once  mastered,  they  be- 
''^iCome  inward  and  germinant.  The  consciousness  of  the 
keachei'  becomes  that  of  the  pupil.  "  You  may,"  he  says 
with  perfect  truth,  "  you  may  not  understand  my  system, 
or  any  given  part  of  it,  or  by  a  determined  act  of  wilful- 
ness, you  may,  even  nithout  perceiving  a  ray  of  light,  re- 
ject it,  in  anger  and  disgust.  But  this  I  will  say — that  if 
you  once  master  it,  or  any  part  of  it,  you  cannot  hesitate 
to  acknowledge  it  as  the  truth.  You  cannot  be  skeptical 
ab(nit  it."*  And  we  appeal  with  confidence  to  those  who 
have  had  opportunities  for  observing,  whether,  as  matter 
of  fact,  those  minds,  and  especially  those  young  minds, 
(ever  most  liable  to  be  misled  by  the  imposing  pretensions 

*  Table  Talk,  Works,  VI.,  519,  520. 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  309 

of  a  false  and  miscalled  ppiritnalism  in  philosophy)  who 
have  once  come  fairly  and  continnonsly  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  opinions  of  Coleridge,  have  not  been,  not  only 
shielded  from  eri-or,  but  also,  fortified  in  the  truth.  Are 
those  who  have  been  educated  and  trained  in  this  s^eneral 
method  of  philosophizing  liable  to  be  drawn  aside  from 
it?  Does  not  the  method  itself  beget  and  nurture  a  de- 
termined strength  of  philosophic  character,  which  obsti- 
nately refuses  to  receive  the  brilliant  and  specious  theories 
that  are  continually  arising  in  the  speculating  world  ? 

This  self-conscious  and  determined  spirit,  in  the  recipi- 
ent of  the  general  system  promulgated  by  Ct)leridge, 
springs  naturally  from  its  predominantly  moral  and  practi- 
cal character.  The  staple  and  stuff  of  this  philosopliy 
are  the  great  moral  ideas,  and  the  faculties  of  the  human 
Boul  most  honored  and  developed  by  it  are  the  moral 
reason,  the  conscience,  and  tiie  will.  The  purely  specu- 
lative materiel  of  philosophy  is  made  to  hold  its  proper 
Bul)ordiiuite  place,  and  the  merely  speculative  and  dialec- 
tic faculty  is  also  subordinated  alons:  with  it.  IJv  recoff- 
nizing  the  absolute  authority  of  conscience,  not  only  with- 
in the  domain  of  religion  but  also  of  philosophy,  and  by 
affirming  that  the  will  itself,  being  the  inmost  centre  of 
the  man,  and,  ideally,  conjoint  and  one  with  reason,  ought 
not  to  stand  entirely  aloof,  while,  by  a  compulsory  Logical 
process,  the  first  truths  of  philosophy  and  religion  are 
attempted  to  })e  fonted  upon  the  mind  with  the  same  ]ias- 
sivitv  and  indifference  with  which  its  belief  of  absti-aet 
axioms  is  necesfiitated — by  regarding,  in  short,  the  moral 
reason  and  the  free-will  in  their  living  Bynthesis,  as  the 
dominant  faculty  and  scat  (^f  authority  in  the  human  soul, 
this  system  of  phiU>sophy  not  only  secures  a  belief  in  the 
truths  of  theism,  l)ut  at  tlm  snmo  time  builds  u|)  and 
strengthens  the  human  mind.     -Mental  belief,  in  this  sj's- 


310  COLERIDGE   AS   A    nilLOSOPIIER 

tcm,  has  the  clement  of  will  in  it.  The  doctrine  of  the 
Divine  existence,  e.  g.,  is  believed  not  merely  j)assively, 
and  from  the  mere  mechanic  structure  of  the  intellect,  aa 
the  axioms  of  geometry  are,  but  to  a  certain  extent  by 
free  self-determination.  The  individual  believes  in  the 
essential  difference  between  riglit  and  wront^,  partly  be- 
cause he  is  inclined  to  believe  it,  and  not  because  it  is  im- 
possible to  sophisticate  himself  into  the  disbelief  of  it. 
On  this  theory,  man  becomes  responsible  for  his  belief, 
even  in  respect  to  the  first  principles  of  morals  and  re- 
ligion, and  thus  feels  all  the  stimulation  of  a  free  and 
therefore  hazardous  position. 

And  this  brings  us  back  again,  to  the  intensely  theistic 
character  of  this  philosophy.  It  is  rooted  and  grounded 
in  the  personal  and  the  spiritual,  and  not  in  the  least  in 
the  impersonal  and  the  natural.  Drawing  in  the  outset, 
as  we  have  remarked  above,  a  distinct  and  broad  line  be- 
tween these  two  realms,  it  keeps  them  apart  from  each 
other,  by  affirming  a  difference  in  essence,  and  steadfastly 
resists  any  and  every  attempt  to  amalgamate  them  into 
one  sole  substance.  The  doctrine  of  creation,  and  not  of 
emanation  or  of  modification,  is  the  doctrine  by  which 
it  constructs  its  theory  of  tlie  universe,  and  the  doctrine 
of  responsible  self-determination,  and  not  of  irresponsible 
natural  development,  is  the  doctrine  by  which  it  constructs 
its  systems  of  philosophy  and  religion. 

2.  In  the  second  place,  we  think  that  this  author  is 
worthy  of  study,  for  his  general  method  of  theologizing, 
and  as  an  able  defender  and  expounder  of  the  doctrines 
of  Christianity  on  grounds  of  reason  and  philosophy. 

In  treating  of  this  point,  we  shall  be  led  to  sj)eak  of 
Coleridge  in  his  other  princijDal  character  of  a  theologian. 
In  regard  to  his  general  merits  under  this  head,  there  is, 
both  in  this  country  and  in  Great  Biitain,  more  difference 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  311 

of  opinion  than  in  regard  to  his  general  merits  as  a  philoso- 
pher. We  are  inclined  to  tlie  belief,  however,  that  there 
is  a  growing  confidence  in  the  substantial  orthodoxy  of 
his  theological  opinions,  and  that  it  is  coming  to  be  the 
belief  even  of  those  who  do  not  sympathize  with  his  phi- 
losophical opinions,  and  of  course  not,  therefore,  with 
his  method  of  unfoldino;  and  defendino;  the  truths  of 
Christianity,  that  the  name  of  Coleridge  deserves  to  be 
associated  with  those  of  the  o-reat  Eno-lish  divines  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  and  that  his  views  do  not  differ  fun- 
damentallv  from  that  bodv  of  Christian  doctrine  which 
had  its  first  systematic  origin  in  the  head  and  heart  of 
Augustine.  We  are  ourselves  firm  in  the  belief,  tliat  the 
theology  of  Coleridge,  notwithstanding  variations  on  some 
})oints,  of  which  we  shall  speak  hereafter,  and  which  we 
are  by  no  means  disposed  to  regard  as  insignificant,  is  yet 
heartily  and  fully  on  the  Augustinian  side  of  that  con- 
troversy which,  after  all,  makes  up  the  pith  and  substance 
of  dogmatic  church  history.  Even  in  relation  to  the 
difference  between  the  Calvinistic  and  Arminian  schemes, 
— schemes  which,  though  essentially  the  same  with  tiie 
Augustinian  and  Semi-Pelagian,  yet  have  a  narrower 
sweep,  and  allow  their  adherents  less  latitude  of  move- 
ment— even  in  relation  to  tliese  two  schemes,  respecting 
which  there  is  such  a  shrinking  in  the  English  clergy,  not- 
withstanding the  strongly-pronounced  tone  of  the  Tliirty- 
iiine  Articles,  from  a  (;loar  ex])rcssion  of  opinion,  Cole- 
ridge lias  not  hesitated  to  say,  that  "  Calvinism  (arch- 
i.siioj)  Leightun's,  for  example),  compared  with  Jeremy 
Taylor's  Arminianism,  is  as  the  lamb  in  tlic  wolf's  skin,  to 
the  wolf  in  the  lamb's  skin  :  the  one  is  cruel  in  [)hrases, 
the  other  in  the  doctrine,"  * 

*  Literary  RemaiiiH,  Works,  V.  200. 


I) 


312  COLERIDGE   AS    A   PHILOSOPHER 

If  tlie  reader  will  peruse  the  Confession  of  Faith  di-awn 
np  by  Coleridtijc  as  far  back  as  1816,*  he  Mall  find  that  he 
expresses  his  solemn  belief  in  the  personality  and  tri-unity 
of  God,  the  free  and  guilty  fall  of  man,  the  redemption  of 
man  by  the  incarnation  and  death  of  the  Son  of  God,  and 
the  regeneration  of  the  human  soul  ])y  the  Holy  Spirit ; 
and  if  he  will  further  peruse  the  development  of  Cole- 
ridge's views,  in  the  Aids  to  Reflection  especially,  on  these 
cardinal  doctrines  of  Christianity,  he  will  find  that,  with 
the  exception  of  that  part  of  the  subject  of  redemption 
technically  denominated  justification,  Coleridge  did  not 
shrink  from  the  most  thorouiyh-goinor  statements.  No 
divine,  not  even  Calvin  himself,  ever  expressed  himself 
more  decidedly  than  this  author,  in  respect  to  such  points 
as  the  divinity  of  Christ,  the  depth  and  totality  of  man's 
apostasy,  and  the  utter  bondage  and  helplessness  of  the 
fallen  will :  and  the  mere  novice  in  theology  knows  that 
profound  and  thorough  views  of  sin  lie  at  the  -foundation 
of  all  depth,  comprehensiveness,  and  correctness,  in  a  gen- 
eral theological  sj'stem. 

It  is  rare,  very  rare,  in  the  history  of  literature,  to  find 
a  mind  so  deeply  interested  in  the  pursuits  of  philosophy 
and  poetry  as  was  that  of  Coleridge,  at  the  same  time 
deeply  and  increasingly  interested  in  theological  studies 
and  speculations ;  and  still  more  rare,  to  find  the  philoso- 
pher and  the  poet  so  thoroughly  committed  to  the  distin- 
guishing doctrines  of  the  Scriptures.  Compare  Coleridge, 
for  example,  with  his  learned  and  able  contemporary  in 
pliilosophy,  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  and  observe  the  wide 
difference  between  the  two  men,  in  respect  to  the  relation 
of  each  to  the  so-called  evangelical  system.  Compare  him 
again  with  his  contemporary  and  friend,  the  poet  Southey, 

*  Literary  Rcmams,  Works,  V.  15. 


AND    THEOLOGIAN.  313 

and  notice  the  same  wide  difference,  in  the  same  respect. 
Neither  Mackintosh  nor  Southey  seem  to  have  had  that 
profound  and  living  consciousness  of  the  trutii  of  such 
doctrines  as  those  of  sin  and  redemption,  which  imparts 
so  much  of  the  thcoloo-ical  character  to  Coleridcje,  and 
which  would  justify  his  being  phiced  among  the  divines 
of  England,  were  not  theology,  in  this  as  in  too  many 
other  instances,  thrown  into  the  shade  by  the  less  noble 
but  more  imposing  departments  of  philosophy  and  poetry. 
He  tells  us  that  he  was  drawn  off  from  poetry  by  the  study 
of  philosophy ;  and  the  account  we  gather  of  his  studies 
and  reflections  during  the  last  quarter  of  his  life  shows, 
ihat  he  was  drawji  off — so  far  as  the  nature  of  the  case 
permits  this — from  philosophy  itself  b}^  theology :  or, 
rather,  that  the  one  passed  over  into  the  other. 

Now,  it  seems  to  ns  that  this  mind,  having  received 
Buch  a  profound  discipline  in  philosophy,  and  that  too  a 
spiritual  and  theistic  philosophy,  and  being  led  both  by 
\\^  original  tendency  and  the  opei-ation  of  divine  grace  to 
tiie  study  and  defence  of  the  truths  of  the  Christian  reli- 
gion on  grounds  of  reason,  is  eminently  fitted  to  be  a  guide 
and  aid  to  reflection  in  this  direction.  We  do  not  recom- 
mend Coleridge  to  the  student  as  the  author  of  a  theologi- 
cal system,  but  rather  as  the  defender  and  expounder  of  a 
general  method  of  inquii-y  and  reflection  npon  theological 
doctrines,  in  the  highest  degree  fruitful  and  sound.  In- 
deed, what  we  have  said  of  Coleridge's  lack  of  con- 
structive ability  in  the  dei)artment  of  philosophy  ai)plie3 
with  still  more  force  to  him  as  a  theologian.  The  longest 
and  most  continuous  statements,  that  Coleridge  has  made 
u])oii  the  doctrines  of  (Jhristianity,  are  to  be  found  in 
the  Aids  to  Jli'jiection,  and  yet  the  general  character 
of  this,  the  most  elaborate  and  vuluabh^  of  his  prose 
])roductions,  is  aphoristic.  The  ajihoristic  metiiod  is,  ob- 
14 


314  COLERIDOK    AS    A    PHILOSOPHER 

vionsly.  not  the  best  by  which  to  convey  opinions  npon 
so  intrinsically  systematic  and  actually  systematized 
themes  as  the  doctrines  of  Cliristianity ;  much  less,  there- 
fore, can  this  method  be  employed  successfully,  in  con- 
structing a  whole  theological  system.  Still,  as  an  aid  to 
reliection,  as  inducing  a  general  stjde  of  thinking,  and 
manner  of  unfolding  and  defending  truth,  this  method 
lias  some  decided  advantages  over  that  of  the  connected 
treatise.  It  allows  of  more  mental  freedom  on  the  part 
of  the  pn])il,  and  fosters  original  reflection,  more  than  a 
work  flnished  in  all  its  parts  and  details,  "For,"  saya 
Lord  Bacon, "  a,s  young  men,  Avlien  they  knit  and  shape  i>er- 
fectly,  do  seldom  grow  to  a  further  stature,  so  knowledge, 
while  it  is  in  aphorisms  and  observations,  it  is  in  growth ; 
but  when  it  is  once  comprehended  in  exact  methods,  it 
may  perchance  be  further  polished  and  illustrated,  and 
accommodated  for  use  and  practice ;  but  it  increaseth  no 
more  in  bulk  and  substance."  * 

We  regard  the  general  method  of  theologizing  induced 
by  the  reflections  of  Coleridge  upon  theological  doctrines, 
as  eminently  profound  and  comjjrehensive.  It  leads  the 
student  to  prize  first  of  all,  depth,  breadth,  and  ceitainty 
of  view,  in  this  department  of  knowledge.     It  does  this, 

*  Advancement  of  Learning,  Book  I. — Consonant  with  this,  are  the 
following  remarks  of  Schleiermacher  :  "Denn  erinnert  Each  nur,  wie 
wenige  von  denen,  welche  auf  einem  cigenen  Wege  in  das  innere  der 
Natur  und  des  Geistes  eingedrnngen  sind  und  deren  gegenseitiges  Ver- 
hiiltniss  und  innere  Ilarmoijie  in  einem  eigenen  Lichte  angeschaut  und 
dargestellt  haben,  wie  deunoch  nur  wenige  von  ihnen  gleich  ein  System 
ihres  Erkennens  hingestellt,  sondern  vielmehr  fast  alle  in  einer  zarteren, 
sollte  es  auch  seiazerbrechlicheren  Form,  ihre  Entdeckimgen  mitgetheilt 
haben.  Und  wenn  Ihr  dagegen  auf  die  Systeme  seht  in  alien  Schul- 
en,  wie  oft  diese  nicht  anders  sind  als  der  Sitz  und  die  Pilanzstatte  des 
todten  Buchstabens ;  weil  niimlich,  mit  seltenen  Ausuahmen,  der  selbst- 
bildende  Geist  der  hohen  Betrachtung  zu  tiiichtig  ist  und  zu  frei  fiix  die 
.stveugen  Formen." — Reden  uber  die  Religion.  Erste  Rede. 


AND   THEOLOGIAN  315 

i 

by  teacliing  as  its  first  aiid  great  lesson,  that  '"'  the  scheme 
of  Christianity,  though  not  discoverable  by  human  reason, 
is  yet  in  accordance  with  it,"  *  and  that  all  reflection 
upon  the  truths  of  Scripture  ought,  therefore,  to  cari-y 
the  mind  down  into  deeper  and  deeper  depths  of  its  own 
beinw-,  and  result  in  the  absolute  and  unassailable  con- 
viction  that  divine  revelation  "is  likewise  divine  reason. 
The  influence  of  Coleridge's  speculations  is  to  produce 
and  establish  the  belief  that  there  is  no  inward  and  neces- 
sary contradiction  between  faith  and  reason,  but  that  when 
both  are  traced  to  their  ultimate  and  central  unity,  faith, 
in  the  phrase  of  Heinroth,  f  will  be  seen  to  be  undeveloped 
and  unconscious  reason,  and  reason,  again,  this  same  faith, 
developed,  self-conscious,  and  self-inteUigent :  in  other 
words,  that  when  the  believer  shall  have  been  raised  b_y 
the  highest  gi'ade  of  Christian  consciousness  to  the  higliest 
grade  of  Christian  knowledge,  he  will  see  that  the  unques 
tionino;  and  childlike  docility  with  wliich  he  trusted  and 
rested  in  the  trutlis  and  mysteries  of  Christianity,  was  tlie 
nK>?t  rational  of  all  mental  acts,  and  the  most  philoso})hic 
of  all  mental  j)rocosscs.  That  this  absolute  consciousness 
can  be  perfectly  reached,  even  by  the  most  profound  and 
holiest  mind  while  in  the  flesh,  we  for  one  deny;  for  the 
same  reason  that,  within  the  sphere  of  life  and  practice, 
we  deny  tlie  doctrine  of  spiritual  perfection  here  on  earth. 
But,  that  this  knowledge,  this  insight  into  the  identity  of 
the  revelation  of  God  with  the  reason  of  Cod,  is  a  reality, 
and  may  be  sti-iven  after,  and  that  in  its  ])erfect  complete- 
ness it  will  l)e  attained  by  the  hunian  spirit  when  it  has 
ceased  to  see  thrfmgh  a  glass  darkly,  has  been  the  stead- 
fast belief  of  the  lioly  and  the  wix-,  in  nil  iigcs  ol'  llie 
("hristian  church.     There  is  a  poinr,  :i  liniil  centre,  where 

*  Biojfraphia  Literaria,  sulj  (inc. 
f  Aiitliroitologif,  H.  2\\). 


31 G  COLEKIDGE   AS   A   PIIILOSOPUER 

faitli  and  iiisig'lit  meet,  even  in  regard  to  the  mysteries  of 
(lii'istianitv  ;  and  tu  this  point,  the  earnest  straining  eye 
of  Christian  spccndation  has  in  all  ages  steadily  turned. 
This  point  is  at  once  the  mysterious  power  that  attracts, 
and  the  goal  where  the  whole  mighty  tendency  is  to  come 
to  a  rest.  Only  on  the  hypothesis  that  the  prohlem  is  not 
in  its  own  nature  ahsurd  and  insoluhle,  but  that  by  a 
legitimate  n)cth()d  Chi'istian  philosophy  may  draw  nearer 
aiul  nearer  its  solution,  even  here  in  space  and  time,  can 
■we  account  for  the  existence  of  a  Chi-istian  theology  at 
all.  How  far  Coleridge  has  contributed,  in  the  employ- 
ment of  this  method,  to  the  scientitic  statement  and  philo- 
sophical defence  of  the  docti-ines  of  Christianity,  and, 
generally,  what  his  positive  merits  are  in  respect  to  this 
relation  of  philosophy  to  revelation,  is  a  question  to  which 
we  would  devote  a  short  space. 

In  respect  to  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity^  upon  which 
his  thouirhts  seem  to  have  centered  durino-  liis  latter  life, 
the  position  which  he  took,  that  this  doctrine  though  mys- 
terious is  yet  rational,  and  is  therefore  a  legitimate  object 
of  investigation  foi-  a  rational  mind,  at  first  sight  seems  to 
extend  the  sphere  of  Christian  speculation  beyond  its 
proper  limits.  For  the  last  two  centuries,  it  has  been  cus- 
tomary among  English  and  American  theologians  to  re- 
ceive the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  ]>urely  on  the  ground  of 
its  being  i-evealed  in  Scripture,  and  attempts  to  establish 
its  rationality  and  intrinsic  necessity  have,  in  the  main, 
been  deprecated.  It  has  not  always  been  so.  In  some 
ages,  the  doctrine  of  the  triunity  of  the  Divine  Being  was 
the  battle-ground  of  the  church,  and  we  are  inclined  to 
think  tliat  the  Christian  mind  has  never  reached  a  deeper 
depth  in  metaphysical  philosophy,  than  that  to  which  it 
was  compelled  to  sink  by  the  acute  objections  of  Arianism 
and  Sabellianism.     Let  any  one  thoughtfully  peruse  the 


AXD   THEOLOGIAN.  317 

creeds  that  had  their  origui  in  these  coutroversies^  and  see 
M-ith  what  masterly  care  and  ability  the  orthodox  mind,  in 
spite  of  all  the  imperfections  of  human  language,  strove  to 
express  the  idea  with  wliich  it  was  laboring,  so  as  to  avoid 
the  Arian,  the  Sabellian,  and  Tritheistic  ideas  of  the 
Divine  Xature,  and  then  ask  himself  if  there  is  not  some- 
thing of  the  mental,  something  of  the  rational,  in  the  doc- 
trine of  the  Trinity,  by  virtue  of  which  it  becomes  a 
legitimate  object  of  contemplation  for  the  human  mind, 
and  to  some  extent  a  guide  to  its  inquiry.  How  could  a 
man  like  Athanasius,  for  example,  contend  so  earnestly, 
and  with  such  truth  of  counter-statement,  against  a  false 
idea,  unless  he  had  the  true  idea  somewhat  clear  in  his 
own  mind  to  contendyc/'.  xVnd  if  it  be  said  that  this  was 
derived  from  the  bare  letter  of  the  Scriptures,  and  that 
the  whole  controversy  between  the  contending  parties 
hinged  upon  the  citation  of  proof  texts,  the  question 
arises:  How  came  Athanasius  to  see  such  a  different  truth 
in  these  texts  frcnn  that  which  his  opponents  saw  in  them? 
Snj))K)se  a  ti-ansfer  of  consciousness — suppose  that  the  in- 
ward convictions  and  notions,  upon  the  subject  of  the 
Trinity,  possessed  by  Arius,  could  have  been  carried 
over  into  the  mind  of  Athanasius — would  the  letter  of 
these  proof-texts  have  contained  the  same  spirit,  or  mean- 
ing, for  him  that  liiey  actually  did '^  For  it  must  be 
recollet;ted  that'  the  Sci-iptures  do  not  furnish,  ready- 
formed,  a  systematic  and  scientific  statement  of  the  doc- 
trine in  question.  How,  then,  came  the  orthodox  mind 
t«)  dei'ive  its  own  sharply-delined  dogma  from  the  Scrip- 
tures, and  the  h(^tei(tdox  mintl  its  own  equally  shai'plyde- 
jincd  dogma  from  the  very  same  Scrii)tures,  unless  each 
brought  an  antecedent  Interpreting  idea  into  the  contro- 
versy {  We  (jo  not  by  any  means  suppose  that  this  ortho- 
dox idea  of  the  Trinity  s[)rang  up  in  the  orthodox  mind  at 


318  COLEKIDQE    AS    A    rillLOSOI'IlER 

this  particular  instant  in  the  history  of  the  church,  and 
entirely  independent  of  the  Scriptures.  It  was  a  slow 
formation,  and  had  come  down  from  the  beginning,  as  the 
joint  product  of  scriptui-al  teaching  and  rational  reflection, 
but  was  brought  out,  by  this  controversy',  into  a  greater 
clearness  and  fullness  tlian  it  had  ever  before  apjjeared  in, 
outside  of  the  circle  of  inspired  minds.  But  that  the  d(jc- 
trine  of  the  Trinity  was  now  an  idea  in  the  tnind  of  the 
churchy  and  therefore  contained  a  mental  element,  by  vir- 
tue of  which  it  was  a  legitimate  object  of  rational  contem- 
plation, and  not  a  mere  letter  upon  the  page  of  Sci'ipture, 
is  the  point  we  wished  to  bring  out. 

Kow  we  think  it  a  return  to  an  older  and  better  view  of 
the  subject,  and  not  a  mere  novelty,  that  Coleridge  M-as 
disposed  to  affirm,  that  whether  it  can  be  distinctly  and 
fully  shown  or  not,  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  is  a  rational 
doctrine,  and  is  not,  therefore,  a  theme  altogether  forbid- 
den to  the  theologian  because  it  stands  in  no  sort  of  rela- 
tion to  a  human  intelligence.  We  believe  that  the  posi- 
tion taken  by  him  in  common  with  the  spiritual  school  of 
theologians  in  Germany,  bet^veen  whose  general  views  in 
theology  and  those  of  Coleridge  there  is  much  affinity, 
that  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  contains  the  only  adequate 
and  final  answer  to  the  standing  objection  of  pantheism 
— viz.,  that  an  Infinite  Being  cannot  be  personal,  because 
all  personal  self-consciousness  implies  limitation  —  is  a 
valuable  one  for  both  philosojih}^  and  theology.  It  pro- 
poses a  high  aim  for  both  of  these  sciences,  and  provided 
the  investigation  be  conducted  in  the  light  of  Scripture 
and  of  the  Christian  consciousness,  and  for  the  very  pur- 
pose of  destroying  the  pantheistic  conception  of  the  Deity, 
into  which  such  abstruse  and  recondite  speculation  we 
confess  is  very  apt  to  run,*  we  luive  little  fear  that  the 

*  The  Trinity  oi'  Hegel  is  an  example. 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  319 

cause  of  true  philosophy  and  reh'gion  will  suffer  from  the 
attempt.  "Whether  the  attempt  he  successful  or  not,  surely 
it  is  honoring  divine  revelation,  and  that  body  of  system- 
atic knowledge  which  has  sprung  up  out  of  it,  to  affirm 
with  Julius  Mtiller,  that  "  the  Christian  religion,  as  it  lies 
in  the  Xew  Testament,  contains  the  fundamental  elements 
of  a  perfect  system  of  philosophy  in  itself  ;  that  there  can- 
not be  a  real  reconciliation  between  philosophy  and  Chris- 
tianity, if  such  reconciliation  must  come  in  from  without, 
and  that  such  a  reconciliation  is  possible  only  as  it  la 
merely  an  unfolding  of  that  which  is  already  contained 
by  implication  in  Christianity  :  and  hence,  that  it  must  be 
possible  to  find,  from  the  immediate  contents  of  the 
Christian  religion,  as  its  metaphysical  complement^  ulti- 
mate and  absolutely  scitntific  statements  relative  to  the 
existence  of.  God  and  the  world,  and  their  mutual  rela- 
tions, in  such  way  as  that  they  shall  of  themselves  consti- 
tute a  system  of  Christian  philosophy."  * 

Furthermore,  whetlier  the  attempt  to  construct  philo- 
sophically the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  succeed  or  not,  the 
assertion  that  it  is  grounded  in  reason,  and  the  necessity 
of  the  Divine  Nature,  logically  cuts  the  root  of  the  doc- 
trine of  a  merely  modal  Trinity:  a  heresy  that  was  re- 
vived by  the  contemplative  Schleiermacher.  If  the  doc- 
trine of  the  Trinity  has  a  rational  necessity,  i.  e.,  a  neces- 
sity in  the  Dirine  Essence  itself — if  God,  in  order  to  he 
2>ers(>nal  and  self-conscious^  and  not  merely  that  he  niay 
manifest  himself,  nnist  be  triune — then  it  follows  that  a 
trinity  of  mere  manifestation,  whatever  it  may  do  for 
other  beings  than  the  Deity,  leaves  the  Deity  himself  des- 
titute of  self-consciousness.  The  position  of  the  Christian 
theol<*gy  is,  that  irrespective  of  his   muHil'estatioii   in  tho 

*  Leiiro  von  dcr  Siinde,  Bd.  I.  bb.  7,  9. 


320  COLERIDGE   AS    A    rilll.OSorilKR 

universe,  antoccdout  to  the  creation,  and  in  tlio  solitude 
of  liis  (»\vn  eternity,  God  is  personally  self-conscious  and 
therefore  triune — absolutely  self-sufUcient,  and  therefore 
neediuii;  to  undei'iro  no  process  of  development  and  mani- 
festation, in  order  to  absolute  ])lenilude  and  perfection 
of  existence.  IJy  affirmiui^  that  the  doctrine  of  the  Trin- 
ity is  an  absolutely  rational  and  necessary  one,  because 
the  Divine  Nature  is  essentially  and  necessarily  trinal, 
tlie  doctrine  of  a  relative  and  modal  trinity  is  logically 
precluded. 

So  far  as  concerns  the  speculations  themselves,  of  Colo- 
ridge,  upon  this  doctrine,  he  undoubtedly  received  the 
theological  statement  of  it,  contained  in  the  Nicene Creed, 
as  the  truth,  and  endeavored,  from  this  as  a  point  of  de- 
parture, to  originate  a  corresponding  philosophical  deter- 
mination of  the  doctrine.  How  much  he  has  actually 
contribnted  to  the  scientific  solution  of  the  problem,  each 
reader  will  decide  for  himself.  We  are  free  to  sa}'-  for 
ourselves,  that  we  think  Coleridge  committed  an  error  in 
leavino;  the  scheme  of  the  triad  for  that  of  the  tetrad,  in  his 
construction.  The  symbols  of  the  Church  proceed  upon 
the  hypothesis  of  a  simple  triad,  which  is  also  a  monad, 
and  hence  teach  a  trinity  in  unity  and  a  unity  in  trinity. 
Coleridge,  on  the  other  hand,  proceeds  upon  the  scheme 
of  the  Pagan  trinity,  of  which  hints  are  to  be  found  in 
Plato,  and  which  can  be  traced  back  as  far  as  Pythagoras 
— the  scheme,  namely,  of  a  monad  logically  anterior  to, 
and  other  than,  the  triad  ;  of  a  monad  which  originally 
is  not  a  triad,  but  becomes  one;  whereby  four  factors  are 
introduced  into  the  problem.  The  error  in  this  scheme 
consists  in  this  its  assumption  of  an  aboriginal  unity  exist- 
ing primarily  by  itself,  and,  in  the  order  of  nature,  he- 
fore  a  trinity — of  a  (jrouud  for  the  trinity,  or,  in  Cole- 
ridge's  })hrase,  a  prothesis,  which  is  not  in  its  own  na- 


AND  THEOLOGIAN.  321 

ture  eitlier  trinal  or  pei-soual,  but  is  merely  the  imper- 
sonal base  from  -which  the  triiiality  is  evolved.  In  this 
way,  -we  think,  a  process  of  development  is  introduced 
into  the  Godhead  that  is  incompatible  with  its  immutable 
])erfection,  and  with  that  golden  position  of  tlie  school- 
men, that  God  is  actus  purissimus  sine  idla  potentiali- 
tate.  There  is  no  latency  in  the  Divine  Being.  He  is 
the  same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever.  We  think  we 
see  in  this  scheme  of  Coleridge  the  influence  of  the  pan- 
theistic conception  of  potentiality,  instead  of  the  theistic 
conception  of  self-completeness,  and  that  if  he  had  taken 
the  distinct  and  full  personality  of  the  finite  spirit  as  the 
image  and  likeness  of  the  Infinite  Personality,  and,  hav- 
ing steadfastly  contemj)lated  the  necessary  conditions  of 
self-consciousness  in  man,  had  merely  freed  them  from 
the  limitations  of  tlie  finite — of  time,  and  degree — he 
would  have  been  more  successful,  certainlv  more  con- 
tinuous  and  progressive.  While  we  say  this,  however,  we 
are  far  from  believing  that  Coleridge's  practical  faith,  as 
a  Christian,  in  the  Trinity,  Avas  in  the  least  affected  by 
this  tendency  to  modalism  in  his  speculative  construction 
of  the  d(jctrine — a  modalism,  too,  which,  as  we  have  re- 
marked above,  is  logically,  and  ought  actually  to  have 
been,  precluded  by  the  position  which  he  heartily 
adopted,  of  the  intrinsic  rationality  and  necessity  of  the 
doctrine.  Few  minds  in  the  whole  history  of  the  Chris- 
tian church,  as  we  believe,  have  had  more  awful  and 
adcning  views  of  the  Triune  God,  or  liave  bowed  down 
in  more  absolute  and  hnvly  woi'ship  before  the  Father, 
bon,  and  Holy  Cihost. 

The  reflections  of  Coleridge  upon  the  great  and  inipoi-- 

tant  doctrine  of  iSin,  we  regard  as  of  the  highest  worth 

both  in   a   practical  and   speculative  respect.     Indeed,  a 

profound  conscifjusnoss  of  sin  in  the  heart,  and  a  corrO' 

14* 


322  COLKRIDQK    AS    A    I'lIlLOSOPIIER 

spondiiiijly  profound  tlieory  of  it  in  the  head,  arc  funda- 
mental to  all  depth  and  soundness  of  view  in  the  general 
domain  of  theology.  Coleridge  speaks,  in  several  places, 
of  his  renunciation  of  Socinianism  and  reception  of  Trini- 
tarianisni  as  resulting  from  a  change  in  his  philosophical 
opinions:  of  a  spiritual  philosophy  as  the  means  of  bring- 
ing him  to  a  spiritual  religion.  Without  denying  the  co- 
operation of  this  iiitiuence,  we  are  yet  inclined  to  the  be- 
lief, that  in  liis  case,  as  in  that  of  Augustine  and  of  men 
of  a  strongly  contemplative  bent  generally,  the  change 
from  error  to  truth  had  its  first  and  deepest  source  in  that 
profound  and  bitter  experience  of  an  evil  nature  which 
every  child  of  Adam  must  pass  through  before  reaching 
peace  of  soul,  and  which,  more  than  any  other  experience, 
carries  the  mind  down  into  the  depths  of  both  the  nature 
of  man  and  of  God.  The  biographical  materials,  for 
forming  an  estimate  of  the  spiiituality  and  religious  ex- 
perience of  Coleridge,  are  somewhat  meagre,  but  there  is 
full  reason  for  believing,  from  the  gushes  of  tender  devo- 
tional feeling  that  burst  up  spontaneously,  and  with  the 
ntuiost  unconsciousness,  on  the  slightest  hint  or  occasion, 
that  a  most  profound  Christian  ex]3erience  lay  warm  and 
tremulous  under  the  wliole  of  his  culture  and  character.* 
We  think  we  can  see  plainly  in  thc^se  most  touching  ex- 
pressions of  a  sense  of  bondage  which  sometimes  escape 
from  him,  that  Coleridge,  in  common  with  the  wise  and 
the  holy  of  all  ages,  was  slowly  but  triumphantly  fighting 
through  that  great  fight  between  the  flesh  and  the  spirit, 
which,  far  more  than  the  splendor  of  a  merely  human  en- 

*  See  Table  Talk,  Works,  VI.  323  (Note),  327  (Note),  478  (Note), 
527;  and  Literary  Remains,  Works,  V.  10-31,  368,  372,  290.— These 
passages  should  be  read  by  any  one  who  would  know  how  lowly  and 
piiuitential,  how  filial  and  trustful  a  Christian  this  "logician,  metaphy- 
eican,  and  bard,"  as  Lamb  called  him,  had  become. 


AND    THEOLOGIAN.  '      323 

dowment,  is  the  secret  of  the  lofty  and  melancholy  inter- 
est with  which,  even  if  personally  nnacquainted  with  the 
struggle,  every  thoughtful  mind  contemplates  the  lives  of 
those  elect  spirits  whom  God's  grace  has  chosen  as  its  dis- 
tinguished organs  of  manifestation — that  unearthly  contest 
which,  more  than  all  else,  is  the  secret  of  that  superior 
charm  which  sets  the  Cojifessions  of  Angustine  as  high 
above  the  Confessions  of  Rousseau  as  the  heavens  are 
above  the  earth.  In  this  connection,  we  believe  that  the 
ojjium-eating  of  Coleridge,  about  which  so  much  has  been 
said  in  a  pharisaic  spirit,  by  those  who  had  small  if  any 
knowledge  of  that  publican-like  humility,  and  lowly  self- 
despair,  which  is  the  heart  and  kernel  of  a  Christian  as 
distinguished  from  a  merely  pagan  or  ethnic  character, 
was  the  occasion,  as  are  all  evil  habits  in  the  regenerate 
soul,  of  this  deep  and  continually  deepening  religious  con- 
sciousness ;  and  that  if  that  ])eculiarity  which  resulted 
from  this  strugi>;le  with  an  evil  habit  were  to  be  taken  out 
of  Coleridge's  experience  as  a  Christian,  it  would  lose 
mncli  of  its  depth,  expanse,  and  true  elevation.  We  have 
not  the  slightest  doubt  that,  when  told,  "  the  tale  of  his 
long  and  passionate  struggle  with,  and  final  victory  over, 
the  habit,  will  form  one  of  the  brightest,  as  well  as  most 
interostinir  traits  of  the  moi-al  and  reliirions  being  of  this 
liumble,  this  exalted  Chi-istian."  *  The  [)ious-miudcd  be- 
liever who  finds  in  his  own  experience  a  fac-simile  of  this 
struggle  with  the  relics  of  an  evil  nature,  and  the  philos- 
ophic incpiirer  who  traces  the  Christ ian  life  to  its  hidden 
and  lowest  springs,  are  both  of  them,  alik(\  far  better 
qnalilied  to  be  judges  and  censors  over  such  a  frailty 
and  sin  as  the  one  in  question,  than  those  moralists  who 
are   precluded,  as  of    (jld,  from  both  the   reception   and 

♦  JI.  N.  Colcridge'a  Preface  to  the  Table  Talk,  Works,  VI.  252. 


324:  COLERIDGE   AS   A   rillLOSOlMlKU 

tlio  ai)pro!icnsion  of  an  evaiio'clical  spirit,  by  tlioir  sclf- 
riirliteDiisiiess,  and  whose,  so-called  religion  is  that  merely 
nei^ative  thing  which  owes  its  origin  not  to  the  conflict 
of  grace  with  sin,  but  to  an  excess  of  lymph  in  the 
blood. 

Coleridge's  view  of  sin,  which  is  to  be  found  the  most 
fully  expressed  in  the  Aids  to  Refiection^  is  so  intimately 
connected  with  his  view  of  the  will,  that  it  is  necessary  to 
direct  attention  to  the  nature  and  functions  of  this  impor- 
tant faculty.  The  place  which  the  will  holds  in  his  sys- 
tem of  philosophy  was  briefly  alluded  to  under  that  head. 
As  the  spiritual,  i.  e.,  self-determined,  principle  in  man,  it 
stands  over  against  all  that  is  strictly  and  merely  natural 
in  him,  in  the  sharpest  opposition.  In  the  idea  and  plan 
of  the  human  soul  it  was  intended  to  control  and  subject 
to  its  own  rational  self-determination  all  the  functions  and 
operations,  all  the  appetencies  and  tendencies,  of  a  nature 
which  unallied  with  such  a  higher  spiritual  power  would 
be  as  irresponsible,  because  as  necessitated  in  its  develop- 
ment, in  man,  as  we  find  it  to  be  in  the  brute.  All  radi- 
cal deterioration,  therefore,  in  the  human  soul,  must  begin 
in  the  stf/Z-determined  part  of  it,  for  this  is  the  only  point 
at  which  a  radical^  responsible  change  can  be  introduced, 
and  from  which  it  can  evolve.  A  mere  nature,  as  in  the 
case  of  irrational  and  irresponsible  existences,  is  not  capa- 
ble of  either  a  radical  deterioration  or  a  radical  improve- 
ment. It  must  develop  itself,  in  the  main,  and  substan- 
tially, in  accordance  with  what  has  been  inlaid  in  it. 
There  are,  therefore,  in  the  world  of  nature  as  distin- 
guished from  that  of  spirit,  no  radical  changes — no  terri- 
ble catastrophes  like  the  fall  of  the  human  will,  no  glori- 
ous recoveries  like  its  renovation.  There  is,  and  must  be, 
within  the  realm  of  the  strictly  natural,  oidy  one  uniform 
evolution,  in  one  continuous  and  endless  line,  because  mere 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  325 

development  cannot,  by  a  free  act,  go  behind  itself,  and 
alter  tlie  basis  from  which  it  proceeds. 

Sin,  therefore,  as  involving  a  radical  change  in  the 
character,  development,  and  history  of  the  human  soul, 
oi-i»Tiuates  in  the  will.  If  man  were  a  mere  creature 
of  nature,  his  development  would  go  on  with  the  same 
necessary  uniformity  with  wliich  a  crystal  or  a  tree  is 
built  up  in  accordarice  witli  the  law  of  nature.  But  he  is 
also  a  spiritual,  i.  e.,  se//-determined,  creature,  and  hence 
that  possibility  of  sinning  which  has  become  a  dreadful 
actuality.  By  virtue  of  this  power,  man  is  capable  of 
throwing  himself  out  of  the  normal  line  of  development 
prescribed  for  him  by  his  Creator,  and  of  beginning,  by 
an  absolute  beginning,  a  cliaracter,  a  course,  and  career, 
the  precise  contrary  to  the  right  and  ideal  one. 

Without  going  into  further  detail  in  regard  to  sin  as 
originating  within  the  sphere  of  freedom — a  point  upon 
wliich  there  is  no  controversy  among  those  who  hold  to 
the  existence  of  sin  at  all — we  wish  to  allude,  as  concisely 
as  possible,  to  the  idea  of  the  will  itself  as  held  by  Cole- 
ridge, and  as  it  is  found  generally,  we  think,  in  the  Platonic 
as  distinguished  from  the  Locke  Calvinism.  For,  the  doc- 
trine of  sin  assumes  a  very  different  form,  and  is  accom- 
panied with  totally  different  i-esults,  both  in  speculative 
and  practical  theology,  according  as  the  idea  of  the  will  is 
capacious,  deep,  and  exhaustive,  or  the  contrary.  If  the 
will  is  regarded  as  merely  the  faculty  of  single  choices,  or 
l»articular  volitions,  the  sin  that  has  its  origin  in  it  must 
iiccessarily  be  atomic — a  mure  series  of  single  and  isolated 
acts,  or,  in  the  technics  of  theology,  actual  and  conscious 
'.ransgressions.  If,  on  flie  other  hand,  the  will  is  i(g:irdcd 
as  the  i»ower  of  determining  the  whole  soid,  and  the  soul 
as  a  whole,  to  an  ultimate  em/ of  living,  the  sin  that  haa 
its  origin  in  it  is  dynamic — an  inmianent  process  or  atutc 


.'l2t>  COLERIDGE    AS    A    PHILOSOPHER 

of  thowill,  having  the  unity,  deptli  and  totality  of  a  nature, 
and,  in  tlicolo^ical  ])ln'aseol()gy,isan  evil  nature, from  whidi 
all  atttual  and  volitionary  tran8i2;rcssions  proceed.  This 
distini;tion  between  the  volitionary  and  the  V(.>hintary  or 
self-determining  power — a  distinction  plainly  marked  l)y 
the  Latin  arhitrium  and  voluntas,  and  equally  plainly  by 
the  German  WillJcuhr  and  Wille — is  important  not  only 
intrinsically,  but  also  in  order  to  an  a])prehension  of  Cole- 
ridge's view  of  the  doctrine  of  original  sin,  which,  we  think, 
does  not  differ  matei'iallv  from  that  of  Ani!;ustine  and  the 
Reformers.  For,  although  Coleridge  insists  earnestly  and 
at  length  upon  the  doctrine  of  free  self-determination,  he 
is  equally  earnest  and  decided  in  affirming  the  absolute 
bondage  and  helplessness  of  the  fallen  human  will.  Ac- 
cording to  him,  the  will  is  capable  of  originating  its  states 
— its  holy  state  only  in  concurrence  with,  and  aided  by, 
the  one  Holy  Will  which  is  the  ground  and  support  of  all 
finite  holiness,  and  its  sinful  state  without  any  aid  or 
co-operation  on  the  part  of  the  Infinite  AVill — but  when  an 
evil  moral  state  has  once  been  originated,  and  the  will  has 
once  responsibly  formed  a  sinful  character  and  nature,  a 
central  radical  change  in  the  direction  and  tendency  of 
this  faculty  is,  from  the  very  nature  of  the  case,  then  out 
of  its  power.  For  the  will  is  not  merely  the  sm-face- 
f acuity  of  single  volitions,  over  M'hich  the  individual  has 
ai'bitrary  control,  but  also  that  central,  and  inmost  active 
principle  into  which  all  the  powers  of  cognition  and  feel- 
ing are  grafted,  as  into  the  very  core  and  substance  of  the 
personalit}  itself.  So  that  when  the  will,  in  iln^full  and 
adequate  sense  of  the  word,  puts  forth  its  sinful  self-de- 
termination, it  takes  the  whole  soul  along  with  it  from  the 
centre  to  circumference,  leaving  no  remainder  of  power 
in  reserve,  by  which  the  existing  direction  of  its  movement 
can  be  reversed.     The  fall  of  the  will,  thcrefo*e,  though 


A^^)   THEOLOGIAN.  327 

a  free  and  self-moved  procedure,  brings  this  faculty  into 
such  a  relation  to  holiness,  that  it  is  utterly  impossible  for 
it  to  recover  itself  back  into  its  primitive  state  :  it  being 
a  contradiction,  to  attribute  a  power  of  originating  holi- 
ness, to  a  faculty,  the  ichole  of  whose  power  is  already 
absf>rbed  in  an  unintermittent  determination  to  sin.  The 
will,  as  thus  conceived,  .is  a  unit  and  a  unity,  and 
having  once  freely  set  Itself  in  the  direction  of  evil,  it 
thereby,  and  in  the  same  i)roportion,"  becomes  powerless 
in  respect  to  a  contrary  direction  ;  not  because,  be  it  ob- 
served, of  any  compulsion  from  without,  but  because  of 
the  obstinate  energy  and  overmastering  momentum  within. 
It  is  an  impossibility  for  Satan  to  cast  out  Satan;  because 
it  is  an  incompatibility. 

Coleridge,  in  brief,  while  holding  to  the  doctrine  of  free 
self-determination  with  the  serious  earnestness  of  a  phi- 
losopher who  well  knew  the  vital  importance  of  it  in  a 
system  of  theism  —  the  doctrine  of  responsible  and  per- 
sonal free-will  being  the  very  and  only  corrosive  of  all 
pantheistic  naturalism — at  the  same  time  agreed  with  the 
oldest  and  soundest  theology  of  the  Christian  church,  in 
not  afhi-uiing  the  existence  of  positive  and  eflicicnt  power 
in  the  fallen  will,  either  to  recover  itself,  or  to  maintain 
itself  ill  lioliness  after  recovery.  "The  difference,"  he 
says,  "  between  a  Calvinist  and  a  Priestleyan  materialist- 
necessitarian  consists  in  this  :  the  former  not  only  believes 
a  will,  l)ut  that  it  is  equivalent  to  the  ego  ijyse,  to  the 
actual  self,  in  every  moral  agent  ;  though,  he  believes  that 
in  human  nature  it  is  an  enslaved,  because  a  corruj)t  will. 
In  denying  free-will  to  the  unregenerato,  he  no  more  de- 
nies will,  than  in  sisserting  the  poor  negroes  in  the  West 
Indies  to  be  slaves,  1  deny  them  to  be  men.  Now  tlio 
latter,  the  Priestleyan,  uses  the  word  will — not  for  any 
diotinct  correspondent  power,  but — for  the  mere  resultand 


328  COLEUIDQE   AS    A   rillLOSOrilKR 

a.ro-vegatG  of  fibres,  motions,  and  sensations  ;  in  short,  it  is 
a  mere  generic  term  with  him,  just  as  when  we  say,  the 
main  current  of  a  river."  *  In  tine,  the  fallen  will  in  re- 
lation to  a  holy  state — in  relation  to  the  "  new  heart " 
of  the  Scriptures — is  a  capability  and  not  an  ability,  a 
recipiency  and  not  a  self-sufhcient  power,  because  the 
decided  and  positive  energy  of  the  faculty,  its  actual  and 
actuating  force,  is  entirely  enlisted  and  swallowed  up  in 
the  proccvss  of  a  sinful  self-determination.  This  sinful 
self-determination,  involving  the  whole  soul  into  itself, 
and  implicating  all  the  energies  of  the  inward  being  of 
man  with  itself,  constitutes  that  evil  nature,  below  the 
range  of  distinct  consciousness,  from  which  all  conscious 
transgression  proceeds,  and  of  which  it  is  the  phenomenal 
manifestation.  In  this  way,  sin  is  seen  to  be  a  single  in- 
divisible nature,  or  disposition,  and  not  merely  an  innu- 
merable series  of  isolated  acts,  and  this  nature  again  is 
seen  to  be  essential  guilt,  because,  as  originated  in  a  will 
and  by  a  will,  it  is  self-originated  and  self-determined. 
In  the  phrase  of  Coleridge,  man  "  receives  a  nature  into 
his  will,  which  by  this  very  act  becomes  a  corrupt  will  ; 
and  vice  versa  this  will  becomes  his  nature,  and  thus  a 
corrupt  nature  ;  "  and,  bearing  in  mind  the  distinguishing 
characteristics  of  nature  and  spirit,  the  reader  will  see  the 
meaning  of  the  further  pcjsition  of  this  author,  "  that  a 
nature  in  a  will  is  as  inconsistent  with  freedom,  as  free 
choice  with  an  incapacity  of  choosing  aught  but  evil ; 
and  that  a  free  power  in  a  nature  to  fulhl  a  law  above 
nature  is  a  startling  paradox  to  the  i*eason."  f 

Kespecting  the  doctrine  of  Original  Sin,  therefore,  we 

*  Literary  Remains,  Works,  V.  448 ;  compare,  also,  Aids  to  Reflec- 
tion, Comment  on  Aphorism  X.,  Works,  I.  271-291. 

f  Aids  to  Reflection,  Works,  I.  281  (Note).  See  also  Notes  on 
Jeremy  Taylor's  Unuin  Necessarium.    Literary  Remains,  Works,  V.  Ido. 


AXD   THEOLOGIAN.  329 

tliinlc  there  is  a  substantial  ai^reement  between  Coleridge 
and  that  form  of  doctrine  which  has  come  down  in  the 
Christian  church  as  the  best  expression  of  both  the  Chris- 
tian experience,  and  the  Christian  reflection  upon  this 
momentous  subject ;  and,  as  we  have  alread}'  remarked,  a 
profound  view  of  sin  is  the  deep  and  strong  soil  from 
which  all  sound,  healthy,  and  healing  growths  in  theologi- 
cal speculation  shoot  up.  Depth  and  truth  of  theory  here 
is  the  very  best  preventive  of  errors  and  misconceptions 
elsewhere,  and  the  very  best  mitigation  and  remedy  for 
them,  if  thev  exist. 

We  have  thus  far  spoken  of  the  soundness  and  fruitful- 
ness  of  Coleridire's  general  method  of  theologizing  ;  of  his 
profound  belief  in  the  inward  harmony  of  reason  and 
revelation,  and  of  that  instinctive  and  irresistible  desire 
which  he  shared  with  the  profoundcst  theologians  of  all 
ages,  to  exhibit  and  establish  this  harmony.  AVe  have  also 
dwelt  upon  his  views  upon  the  fundamental  doctrines  of 
the  Trinity  and  tlie  Fall  of  man,  selecting  these  out  of  the 
great  circle  of  Christian  doctrines,  because  they  ai-e  fun- 
damental, and  in  their  implication  contain  the  whole 
Christian  system.  It  is  impossible,  however,  within  the 
space  of  an  esspy,  and  it  is  not  perhaps  desirable,  to  pur- 
sue the  opinions  of  this  author  through  the  whole  series  of 
individual  doctrines,  and  having,  as  we  think,  shown  his 
substantial  agreement,  so  far  as  the  general  type  and 
(character  of  his  theology  is  concerned,  with  the  Augus- 
tinian,  we  pass  now  to  a  brief  consideration  of  some 
erroneous  and  defective  view^  that  cling  to  it. 

Notwithstanding  Coleridge's  earnest  advocacy  of  the 
doctrine  of  the  self-determining  power  of  the  huinan 
will,  whereby  the  oriirin  <>!"  sin  is  taken  out  of  the  course 
of  nature,  and  merely  natural  processes,  and  brought 
within  the  sphere  of  freedom  and    amenability  to  justice, 


330  COLICRIDGE    AS    A    PIIILOSOI'IIER 

\\c  think  that  the  idea  of  guilt,  t]ioup;h  by  no  means 
denied,  or  unrecognized,  either  in  his  personal  experience 
or  liis  speculations,  was  not  sufficiently  deep,  clear,  and 
impi-essive  for  liiin.  Sin,  for  liiin,  as  for  many  contem- 
puitive  minds  in  the  Cliristian  church — as  it  was  for  Ori- 
gen  in  the  early  church,  for  the  mystical  theology  of  the 
middle  ages,  for  the  school  of  Schleiermacher  at  the  pres- 
ent time — was  too  disproportionately  the  corruption  and 
disharmony  of  the  human  soul,  and  not  sufficiently  its  guilt. 
Now,  the  strongest  motive  which  the  theologian,  as  distin- 
guished from  the  i)hilosopher,  has  for  maintaining  the  doc- 
trine of  free  will,  is  to  find  an  adequate  and  rational  ground 
for  the  responsibility  and  criminality  of  the  human  soul  as 
fallen  and  corrupt.  He  is  not  so  anxious  to  establish  the 
doctrine  of  self-determination  in  reference  to  the  origin  of 
holiness  (though  in  this  reference  the  doctrine  is  important), 
as  in  reference  to  the  oriij-in  of  sin  :  knowing  that  while 
there  is  little  hazard  in  attributing  too  much  to  the  divine 
agency  in  the  production  of  moral  good,  there  is  the  great- 
est hazard  in  implicating  the  deity  in  the  origin  of  moral 
evil.  It  would  seem,  therefore,  that  so  determined  an 
advocate  of  the  doctrine  of  human  freedom  as  Coleridge 
was,  should  not  only  have  seen  that  the  very  essence  of 
sin,  as  self-determiiml,  and  thereby  distinguislied  from 
all  other  forms  of  evil,  consists  in  its  ill-desert  and  penal- 
ity, and  that  therefore  its  first  and  most  important  relation 
is  to  law  and  justice,  but  should,  especially,  have  allowed 
this  view  to  have  moulded  and  shaped  in  a  proper  degree 
his  theory  of  Bedemjytion.  But,  the  scheme  which  Cole- 
ridge presents  in  the  Aids  to  Reflection  is  defective  in 
not  insisting  with  sufficient  emphasis  upon  the  truth,  that 
as  the  essential  nature  of  sin  (by  virtue  of  which  it  is 
different  in  kind  irom  all  other  forms  of  evil,  and  becomes, 
strictly   speaking,  the   only  evil,   per  se)  is  ^guilt,  so   an 


AND    THEOLOGIAN.  331 

essential  element  in  any  remedial  plan  must  be  atonement, 
or  exjnation.  The  correlate  to  guilt  is  atonement,  and  to 
attempt  to  satisfy  those  specific  wants  of  the  sinful  soul 
which  spring-  out  of  remorse  of  conscience,  which  is  the 
folt  and  living  relation  of  sin  to  law  and  justice,  by  a 
mere  provision  for  spiritual  sanctitication,  however  needed 
and  necessary  this  may  be  in  its  own  place,  must  be  like 
the  attempt  to  satisfy  tliirst  witli  food.  Coleridge  was 
repelled  from  the  doctrine  of  vicarious  atonement,  hy 
some  of  the  mechanical  sclicmes  and  forms  under  which 
it  lias  been  exhibited;  but  if,  as  the  best  theology  of  the 
church  has  generally  done,  he  had  looked  at  it  from  the 
view-point  of  the  absolute  nature  of  justice,  and  had 
brought  it  under  the  category  of  want  and  correlate — one 
of  the  most  vital  of  all,  and  one  with  which  Coleridge's 
own  mind  was  thorono;hlv  familiar — it  seems  to  us  that 
ho  would  have  seen,  that,  although  the  terms  ransom  and 
payment  of  a  debt,  when  applied  to  the  agency  of  the 
Kedeemer,  are  indeed  metaphorical,  the  term  expiation  is 
not.*  If  he  had  steadfastly  contemplated  the  subjective 
wants  of  the  human  soul  while  tilled  with  the  conscious- 
ness of  guilt,  and  before  that  sense  of  corruption  and 
those  yearnings  for  holiness  of  heart  which  are  the  conse- 
quent rather  than  antecedent  of  regeneration  have  sprung 

*  See  Aids  to  Reflection,  Aph.  XIX.,  Comment,  Works  I.  30(5-831. 
We  never  read  this  ardent  but  merely  analog-ical  argument  against  sub- 
Btituted  penal  sufTering  within  the  spiritual  si)hcre  of  justice,  founded 
upon  the  m'jrely  natural,  and  wlioily  unjudicial,  relation  of  a  son  to  liia 
mother,  without  tliinking  of  the  words  iu  Wallenstein  : 

"O  thou  art  fdiiifl,  with  thy  deep-seaing  ej'es." 

There  i«  no  inward  anil  real  analogy  between  the  two  spheres.  There 
can  be  no  legitimate  arguing  from  a  Hjihen!  from  which  the  rctri/jtUive 
is  altogether  e.xcluiled,  such  as  that  of  the  mother  and  child,  over 
into  a  sphere  iu  which  the  retrilmtice  is  the  princi|)al  element,  such  as 
that  of  God  the  just  and  man  the  guilty.     It  is  /x«Tci/3a(TJs  f  u  aAAo  7tVoi, 


332  coLKUinoK  as  a  rniLosoniER 

lip  ill  it,  and  then  had  gone  still  farther,  and  contemplated 
the  dread  ohjectivo  g-rouiid  of  this  remorseful  and  guilty 
conscience,  in  the  divine  justice,  which,  through  this 
finite  medium,  reveals  itself  against  all  unrighteousness, 
he  would  have  seen  as  the  Augustines,  the  Anselms,  the 
Calvins,  and  the  Howes  have  seen,  that  there  is  a  rational 
necessity  for  the  expiation  of  guilt — a  necessity  founded 
in  the  rational  nature  and  moral  wants  of  man,  and 
therefore  primarily  in  the  nature  and  attributes  of  that 
infinitely  Holy  Being  who  made  man  in  his  own  image, 
and  after  his  own  likeness. 

Moreover,  in  taking  the  position  which  he  does — viz., 
that  the  real  and  absolute  relation  of  the  Passion  of  the 
Redeemer  to  the  divine  attributes  is  a  mystery,  in  such 
sense  that  nothing  can  be  affirmed  concerning  it  that  can 
be  intelligible  to  the  human  intellect,  or  edifying  to  the 
Imman  heart  (for  this  is  said,  when  it  is  asserted  that  the 
subjective  consecpiences  in  the  redeemed  are  all  that  can 
be  known  npon  the  subject),  Coleridge  stands  in  remark- 
able inconsistency  with  himself.  We  have  seen  that  even 
the  Ti-inity  was  not  by  him  regarded  as  a  mystery,  in  the 
modern  but  really  improper  sense  of  standing  in  no  sort 
of  relation  to  a  rational  intelligence — in  the  sense  of  con- 
taining no  rational  and  intelligible  element,  npon  which 
the  human  mind  can  seize  as  a  point  of  contact  and  com- 
munion. And  yet,  one  wliole  side  of  the  work  of  Redemp- 
tion— that  side,  too,  which  stands  in  the  very  closest  con- 
nection with  the  deepest  and  most  awful  sense  in  the 
human  soul,  the  sense  of  guilt,  and  ministers  to  the  deep- 
est and  most  awful  craving  that  ever  emerges  into  the 
horizon  f»f  consciousness,  the  cravino;  for  a  deliverance 
from  guilt  on  real  grounds,  i.e.,  on  grounds  oi  justice: 
(a  craving  that  lies  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole  system  of 
sacrifices,   Pagan  as  well  as  Jewish,  and   is  both  their 


AND    THEOLOGIAN.  333 

rational  justification  and  explanation) — this  whole  side  of 
the  work  of  Redemption  is  thrown  utterly  out  of,  and 
beyond,  the  range  of  the  human  mind  ;  so  that  although 
its  consequences  in  tlie  redeemed  may  be  known,  its  own 
inward  nature,  tlie  a-round  and  cause  of  these  very  conse- 
quences,  is  as  utterly  unknown  and  nnknowable  as  that  of 
a  ''  fforiron  or  chimiBra  dire!  "  But,  aside  from  this  incon- 
sistency,  it  is  a  fatal  objection  to  this  theory,  that  these 
consequences  themselves  —  this  Christian  peace  of  con- 
science, and  sense  of  reconciliation  with  a  Holy  Lawgiver 
— cainiot  come  into  existence  through  such  an  ignorant 
and  blind  faith  as  the  soul  is  shut  up  to  on  this  scheme. 
Such  effects  cannot  proceed  from  such  a  cause.  Here,  if 
anywhere  in  the  whole  field  of  the  Christian  consciousness, 
there  must  be  the  miion  of  faith  with  insight.  There 
must  be  some  knowledge  of  the  pio'pose,  and  purport  of 
the  death  of  the  Son  of  God — some  knowledge  of  the 
inward  and  real  relation  which  the  substituted  sufferings 
of  Christ  sustain  to  divine  justice — before  the  guilt-stricken 
si:)irit,  looking  about  instinctively  for  an  atonement  of 
guilt,  can  confidently  and  calmly  rest  in  them  for  purposes 
of  justification.  At  the  very  least,  tiieir  inti'insic  adaptation 
to  the  end  proposed  aud  desired,  their  adequacy^  must  be 
recognized  by  the  mind  ;  and  what  is  such  recognition 
but  a  species  and  a  grade  of  knowledge  respecting  their 
nature,  fitness,  and  rational  necessity?  Tiic  faitii  of  the 
common  Christian  contains  implicitly  the  rationale  of  the 
doctrine  of  atonemcut  ;  for,  the  oi'igiii  and  existence  of 
this  faith  itself  is  exj)licable,  only  on  the  hyitothesis  that 
there  is  reason  or  fitness  in  the  doctrine  ;  and  if  it  is 
rational,  it  is  ai>i)rchensible. 

While,  however,  we  arc  noticing  this  defect  iu  Cole- 
ridge's statement  of  tlie  doctrine  of  Iledemption,  it  ought 
at  the  same  time  to  be  observed,  that  he  was  not  im[iclh'(| 


331  COLEREDOE    AS    A    PHILOSOPHER 

t(>  the  view  he  took,  by  a  morbid  and  feeble  moral  seiiti- 
nieiit,  or  from  any  disposition  to  mei'ge  all  the  divine 
attributes  into  an  irrational  and  blind  benevolence.  It 
was  an  intellectual,  more  than  a  moral  defect,  with  him  ; 
for  when  he  is  himself  o])posing  Socinianism — and  few 
minds  have  been  more  heartily  op[)osed  to  it  than  his — we 
find  him  employing  the  very  same  oI)jections  to  a  scheme  of 
salvation  that  makes  no  provision  for  the  guilt  of  man, 
and  the  justice  of  God,  which  the  orthodox  mind  has 
urged  in  all  ages.  "  Socinianism,"  he  says,  "  is  not  a 
religion,  but  a  theory,  and  that  too,  a  very  pernicious,  or  a 
very  unsatisfactory  theory.  Pernicious — for  it  excludes 
all  our  deep  and  awful  ideas  of  the  perfect  holiness  of 
God,  his  justice  and  his  mercy,  and  thereby  makes  the 
voice  of  conscience  a  delusion,  as  having  no  correspondent 
in  the  character  of  the  legislator  ;  regarding  God  as  merely 
a  good-natured  pleasure-giver,  so  happiness  is  produced, 
indifferent  as  to  the  means — unsatisfactory,  for,  it  prom- 
ises forgiveness,  without  any  solution  of  the  di/fficuMy  of 
the  comjMtihility  of  this ^  with  the  justice  of  God.''''  * 

In  other  places,t  on  the  otjier  hand,  we  find  him  ex- 
pressing himself  respecting  the  more  mechanical  view  of 
this  doctrine,  witli  an  impatience  and  rashness  which  a 
deeper,  calmer,  and  more  truly  philosophic  insight  into  it 
would  have  precluded.  For,  he  who  has  meditated  pro- 
foundly upon  the  Divine  Being,  and  has  thoughtfully 
asked  himself  the  question  :  lias  the  Deity  affections  in 
any  sense,  and  what  solid  meaning  have  such  biblical 
terms  as  anger  and  jjropitiation,  when  applied  to  Him  ? 
will  not  be  in  haste  to  condemn  even  the  most  inadequate 
statement  upon  this  "  abyssmal  subject,"  provided  he  sees 

*  Literary  Remains,   Works,   V.  552,  553  ;  and  compare  Works,  V. 
440-448. 

f  Literary  Romains,  Works,  V.  74,  e.  g. 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  335 

that  its  general  meaning  and  purport  is  on  the  right  side 
of  the  great  controversy.  Tliat  Coleridge  had  not  specu- 
latively reached  the  bottom  oi'  this  doctrine,  and  acquired 
a  view  of  it  as  profound  and  corapreliensive  as  that  of 
Anselm,  e.  g.,  in  his  Cur  Deits  homo  f  or  as  that  to  which 
a  tract  like  Owen's  on  the  absolute  nature  of  divine  jus- 
tice leads,  is  evident  from  the  irresolution  of  his  mind,  and 
the  unsteadiness  of  his  attitude.*  In  fine,  as  we  remarked 
at  the  outset,  the  defect  in  Coleridge's  view  of  this  subject 
is  traceable  to  a  deficiency  in  his  theoretic  view  of  sin,  in 
one  of  its  two  main  aspects.  Tlie  idea  was  not  full.  And 
perhaps  the  cause  of  this  speculative  deficiency  was  a 
practical  one  at  bottom.  Like  many  other  contemplative 
spirits,  Coleridge  came  into  Christianity  gradually,  and 
not  through  a  violent  inward  crisis,  and  hence  his  experi- 
mental consciousness  of  sin,  though  not  by  any  means 
entirely  lacking  the  element  of  remorse,  was  yet  predomi- 
nanth'  a  sense  of  bondage  and  corruption.  AV^e  doubt  not 
that  Coleridge's  exposition  of  the  doctrine  of  Kedemptioii 
(as  would  that  of  Schleiermacher)  would  have  been  differ- 
ent from  what  it  now  is,  by  a  very  important  modifica- 
tion, had  his  own  Christian  consciousness  been  the  result 
of  such  an  inward  conflict  with  guilt  as  Luther's  was,  or 
such  a  keen  insight  into  the  nature  of  law  and  justice  as 
Calvin  had,  instead  of  being,  as  it  was,  the  result  of  a 
comparatively  quiet  transition  into  Christianity  and  growth 
therein  ;  in  which  process,  the  yearning  after  holiness  and 
pui'ity,  instead  of  the  craving  after  atcMiemcnt  for  agoniz- 

*  When  himself  attacking  Socinianiam,  ColurWge  employs  tlu;  iilua- 
BGology  of  the  Calvinist,  and  seems  thereby  to  reserve  the  attacking  of 
Calvinism  as  a  prndiitm  of  his  own  ;  as  Jolinsou  allowed  no  ono  but 
himself  to  abuse  Goldsmilli.  See  Literary  llcniaius,  passim  ;  and  ob- 
serve the  general  animus  of  the  notcg  on  Jeremy  Taylor ^  and  un  A  Bar- 
ruter'^  IIiut». 


336  COLERIDGE    AS   A   PHILOSOPHER 

inn;  giiilf  in  the  conscience,  was  the  predominant,  though 
not  sole  feeling. 

In  respect  to  the  views  of  Coleridge  npon  the  subject 
of  Jm^pimtion,  it  is  not  our  pui-pose  to  enter  into  any  de- 
tail, but  simply  to  notice  the  defect  in  the  general  princi- 
ple adopted  by  him.  This  ])rin(riple,  to  state  it  in  a  word, 
is  as  follows:  In  determinijig  the  absolute  truth  and 
authority  of  the  Scriptures,  the  objective,  generally,  is 
subordinate  to  the  subjective.  With  the  exception  of 
those  particular  instances  in  which  the  objective  revela- 
tion exj)licitly  claims  a  paramount  superiority  to  the  sub- 
jective intelligence,  by  asseiting  a  direct  dictation  from 
God,  the  former  has  intrinsic  authority  or  validity,  only 
so  far  as  it  acquires  it  before  the  bar  of  the  individual 
judgment.  The  subjective  reason,  with  the  exception 
specified,  is  placed  first,  as  the  fixed  and  absolute  norm 
or  rule  to  which  the  objective  reason  is  to  be  brought 
up  and  conformed.  Now,  the  strongest  objection  to  this 
theoiy  of  llevelation  is  to  be  derived  from  the  very  prin- 
ciples of  the  philosophy  adopted,  as  we  have  endeavored 
to  show,  by  Coleridge  himself,  But,  even  if  we  should 
regard  him  as  an  adherent  of  the  later  German  philoso- 
phy, the  absolute  and  fixed  truth  would  not  lie  in  the  sub- 
ject alone,  but  in  the  identity  of  the  subject  and  the  ob- 
ject— in  a  common  ground  that  contains  both  factors. 
And  even  this  position  would  be  more  sound,  and  less 
objectionable,  when  applied  to  the  mutual  relations  of 
the  individual  mind  and  divi;ie  Kevelation,  than  the  one 
which  we  have  mentioned  above,  which  is  really  ten- 
able oidy  by  an  adherent  of  Fichte's  system,  in  which  the 
truth  is  laid  in  the  subject  wholly.  Even  on  tiie  princi- 
l>les  of  the  philosophy  of  Identity,  the  truth  would  not  be 
wholly  and  ultimately  in  the  subjective,  nor  would  the 
objective  Kevelation  be  so  passively  exposed  to  the  flue- 


AOT5   THEOLOGIAN.  337 

tuations  of  an  individual  consciousness ;  because,  at  the 
Terv  least,  there  would  be  room  for  action  and  reaction, 
for  correction  and  coanter-corYedion. 

But,  we  think  it  has  been  made  out,  that  Coleridge,  on 
this  point  of  the  relation  of  the  subject  to  the  object,  nlti- 
matelv  adopted  the  view  of  the  Kantean  philosophy,  sul)- 
stantiallj  that  of  all  theistic  systems,  which  explains  tiie 
possibility  of  knowledge  by  a  preconformity  of  the  subject 
to  the  object,  instead  of  an  identity  of  substance  between 
them.  On  this  system,  tliere  is  a  dualism  between  the 
object  and  the  subject.  Of  the  two,  the  former  is  the  un- 
limited and  the  universal,  and  stands  over  against  the  lat- 
ter as  the  limited  and  particular.  It  is  the  ohjective^ 
therefore,  which  possesses  the  fixed  and  uniform  character 
(in  this  instance,  the  infallibility),  to  which  the  subjective 
comes  up  with  its  preconformed  powers  of  apprehension  ; 
and  the  function  of  the  latter,  consequently,  is  a  recipient 
one,  instead  of  an  orij'inant  or  creative  one  as  in  the  svs- 
tern  of  Fichte,  or  a  self-developing  one  as  in  the  system 
of  Schelliufj  and  Ileii^el. 

We  are  aware  that  Coleridge  believed  that  the  Scrip- 
tures are,  as  matter  of  fact,  infallibly  true  on  all  funda- 
mental subjects,  and  that  those  doctrines  which  he,  in 
connnon  with  the  Christian  church,  regarded  as  vital 
to  human  salvation,  are  all  plainly  revealed  in  them. 
This  ought  to  be  noticed,  because  tliis  of  itself  separates 
hi>n  heaven-wide  from  a  mere  i-ationalist,  and  places  him 
in  the  same  general  class  with  the  evangelical  school  of 
theologians  in  Germany,  in  respect  to  this  doctrine  of  In- 
spiration. Still,  we  rcgai'il  it  an  error  in  him,  and  in 
them,  that  the  canon  is  not  contemjdated  as  a  comi)lete 
whole  in  and  by  itself,  having  a  conunon  origin  in  the 
Divine  ^Find,  in  such  sense,  that  as  a  body  of  ini'orniulion 
it  is  infallihly  correct  on  all  the  subjects  that  come  within 
15 


33S  COLERIDGE    AS    A    rillLOSOPIIER 

its  scope  and  purpose.  There  must  be  truth  somewhere^ 
in  regard  to  all,  even  the  most  uniniportaTit,  particulars  of 
history,  biography,  and  geography,  that  enter  into  the 
puV)joct  matter  of  the  sacred  canon,  and  it  seems  to  ns 
altogether  the  most  rational,  to  presume  and  assume  that 
it  lies  in  the  canon  itself — in  the  written  Revelation  con- 
sidered as  a  finished  and  inspired  unity.  These  secondary 
matters  are  always  an  important,  and  sometimes  vital  part 
of  the  great  whole,*  and  as  they  are  so  integrated  into  the 
solid  doctrinal  substance  of  the  Scriptures  that  they  can- 
not be  taken  out  of  it,  any  more  than  the  blue  veins  can 
be  fi-om  the  solid  marble,  why  is  it  not  rational  to  believe 
that  they  had  the  same  comvion  origin  with  the  doctrines 
and  fundamental  truths  themselves  which  are  encrusted 
and  ci'ystallized  in  them — in  other  words,  that  the  Divine 
Mind,  whether  as  positively  revealing,  or  inspiring,  or 
superintending,  is  the  ultimate  Author  of  the  whole? 
There  are  but  two  objections  to  this  position.  The  first 
is,  that  the  inspired  writers  become  thereby  mere  amanu- 
enses and  automata.  This  objection  has  no  force  for  one 
■who  believes  that  the  Divine  can,  and  does,  dwell  and 
work  in  the  human,  in  the  most  real  and  absolute  manner, 
without  in  the  least  mutilating  or  suppressing  the  human, 
and  ought  not  to  be  urged  by  one  who  believes  in  the  in- 
dwelling of  the  Holy  Ghost  in  the  regenerate  soul.     As, 

*  In  some  instances  at  least,  a  vital  part ;  as  e.  g. ,  the  biographic 
memoirs  of  the  Redeemer  by  the  evangelists.  If  these  are  not  infalli- 
ble as  history,  then  the  whoTo  Christian  religion  instantaneously  dis- 
appears :  for  then  the  Personage  in  whom  it  centres  and  rests  cannot 
be  proved  to  have  had  an  actual  existence  in  space  and  time,  and 
the  forecasting  intimations  which  the  human  soul  (of  a  Plato,  e.  g.)  has 
had  of  a  future  Redeemer  would  not  save  it  from  skepticism  and  de- 
Bpair.  Hence,  in  the  contest  between  rationalism  and  supernaturalism 
in  Germany,  the  historical  narratives  in  the  four  gospels  have  been  tho 
hottest  part  of  the  battle-field. 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  339 

in  this  instance,  the  Imman  cannot  be  separated  from  the 
Divine,  in  tlie  individual  consciousness,  and  all  "  the  fruits 
of  the  Spirit"  seem  to  be  the  very  spontaneity  of  the  hu- 
man soul  itself,  so,  in  the  instance  of  the  origination  of 
the  body  of  Holy  Writ,  while  all,  even  the  minutest  parts 
have  the  flexibility,  freshness,  and  naturalness  of  purely 
human  productions,  there  is  yet  in  and  through  them  all, 
the  unerring  agency  of  the  Supreme  Mind.  In  other 
words,  the  Supreme  Intelligence  is  the  orgamzing  j^rinci- 
ple  of  that  outstanding  body  of  information  which  is 
called  the  Bible,  and,  working  like  any  other  organizing 
principle  with  thoroughness^  produces  a  wliolo  that  is 
characterized  by  its  own  characteristic — perfection  of 
knowledire  —  even  as  life  in  tlie  natural  world  diffuses 
itself,  and  produces  all  the  characteristic  marks  of  life, 
out  to  the  rim  of  the  tiniest  leaf.  The  second  objection, 
and  a  fatal  one  if  it  can  be  maintained,  is,  that  there  are 
actual  errors  in  the  Scriptures,  on  points  in  regard  to 
which  they  profess  to  teach  the  truth.  Let  this  be  shown, 
if  it  can  be ;  but  until  it  has  been  shown,  without  possi- 
bility of  contradiction,  the  Christian  mind  is  certainly 
rational  in  continuing  to  assume  and  afiirm  the  infallibil- 
ity of  the  written  word.  We  say  tliis  with  conlidence, 
because,  out  of  the  great  number  of  alleged  errors  and 
contradictions  tluit  have  been  urged  against  tlic  plenary 
inspiration  of  tlie  Scriptures,  there  is  not  a  single  one 
established  as  such  upon  grounds  that  render  it  absurd  for 
a  defender  of  tiie  doctrine  to  take  the  opposite  side. 
Thci-o  is  no  list  of  conceded  and  ackn(>wledi:;cd  errors  in 
the  Scriptures.  There  are  many  dilliculties  still  remain- 
ing, we  graTit,  but  while  there  is  not  a  case  in  which  the 
absolute  and  unajipealablc  settlement  has  resulted  in  es- 
tablishing the  fact  of  undoubted  error,  there  are  many  in 
which  it  h-is  resulted   in  fuvor  of  the  doctrine  of  plenary 


3i0  COLERIDGE   AS   A   niTLOSOniER 

inspiration.  No  one  acquainted  with  the  results  of  the 
severe  and  skeptical  criticism,  to  whicli  the  canon  has 
been  subjected  for  the  last  half-century  in  Germany,  will 
deny  that  the  number  of  apparent  contradictions  and 
errors  is  smaller  now  than  it  was  at  the  be<i;innin(^  of  this 
period,  and  that  the  remainder  of  the  series  is  diminish- 
ing. And,  had  Coleridge  himself  kept  up  with  the  prog- 
ress of  Biblical  Criticism  in  that  country  where  the 
foundation  of  his  views  on  this  subject  seems  to  have  been 
laid,  he  would  nndoubtedly  have  seen  reasons  for  reject- 
ing some  erroneous  hypotheses  which,  though  exploded  in 
the  land  of  their  birth,  clung  to  him  to  the  end  of  his  life. 
He  seems  in  regard  to  such  an  important  point,  as  the  in- 
spiration and  canonical  authority  of  the  ChristopcBdia  in 
both  Matthew's  and  Luke's  gospels,  e.  g.,  not  to  have 
made  any  advance  upon  the  general  views  of  the  brilliant 
but  snperficial  Eichorn,  who  was  his  teacher  in  1799.* 
•  This  whole  subject  of  Inspiration,  a  most  important  and 
difficult  one  in  some  respects,  turns  upon  the  true  relation 
of  the  subjective  to  the  objective,  and  particularly'  of  the 
human  to  the  Divine  Heason.  We  cannot  but  recjard  this 
middle  theory  of  Inspiration,  set  forth  by  Coleridge  in 
'jommon  with  that  spiritual  school  of  theologians  in  Ger- 
many which  is  destined  to  exert  a  great,  and  we  believe 
on  the  whole  salutary  influence  upon  the  theology  of  this 
countiy  and  Great  Britain,  for  some  time  to  come,  as  in 
direct  opposition  to  that  sound  and  rational  philosophy 
which  regards  the  objective  as  fixed,  reliable,  and  absolute, 
and  conceives  of  the  sul)jective  as  designed  to  receive  tiiis 
into  itself  with  intelligence  and  freedom,  and  as  really  free 
from  fluctuation  and  error,  only  so  far  as  it  partakes  of 
the  fixedness  and  truth  of  the  objective.     The  finite  rea- 

♦  Literary  Remains,  Works,  V.  70,  78,  79,  533. 


AND   THEOLOGIAN.  341 

8on  is  rather  a  recipiency  than  a  self-subsistent  power,  ac- 
ct)rding  to  Kant  and  Jacobi,  and  there  are  mai\y  passages 
in  Colendse's  writino-s  that  endorse  this.  The  liunian 
mind  is  ratlicr  a  capacity,  than  a  self-sufficing  f  nhiess  like 
the  Divine  Mind  ;  and  therefore  the  only  rational  attitude 
of  the  subjective  intelligence  towards  the  objective  Revela- 
tion, and  towards  all  i-evelation  of  the  Supreme  Reason, 
is  that  of  intelligent  and  living  receptivity.  The  Clu-istiau 
consciousness  itself  cannot  safely  be  left  to  its  own  inde- 
pendent movement,  without  any  moulding  and  modifying 
inlinence  of  the  written  word.  The  outward,  fixed,  and 
self-included  Scripture  must  go  down  through  all  tlie 
ages  and  clianges  of  tiie  Christian  experience  and  Chris- 
tian reflection,  as  the  absolute  norm  by  which  the  whole 
process  of  practical  and  speculative  development  is  to  be 
protected  from  deviations  to  the  right  hand  and  to  the  left. 
The  inspired  Canon  is  to  steady  and  solidify  that  living 
process  of  thinking  and  of  feeling  which  is  embodied  and 
manifested  in  the  Christian  church,  and  keep  it  from  the 
extremes  on  either  hand,  to  which  a  finite  mind  and  a 
living  pi'ocess  are  ever  liable.  Neither  the  practical  nor 
the  scientific  form  of  a  particular  doctrine,  or  of  Christian 
theology  generally,  may  be  sought  for  in  the  Christian 
consciousness,  except  as  this  has  been  rectified  and  puri- 
fied by  the  Scriptures — in  tlie  sul)jective,  except  as  it  has 
Ijeen  rectifled  from  its  eri-ors  and  purified  from  its  foreign 
eletnents,  by  the  conscious  rece[)ti<)n  into  itself  of  the  ob- 
jective which  is  absolutely  free  froui  ])()th.  There  would 
be  more  weight  in  the  doctrine  of  the  authority  of  the 
finite  reason,  and  the  Christian  consciousness,  than  there 
now  is,  if  all  the  processes  of  the  human  soul,  even  the  re- 
generate human  soul,  were  normal  processes.  Rut  lie 
has  studied  the  histc^ry  of  even  (Miristian  si)eculation  to 
little  pui'itosc,  who  has  not  learned  from  it  the  need  ol'  an 


342  COLERIDGE   AS    A   rniLOSOPIIKR 

objective  and  fixed  authority  for  the  fallen  human  mind. 
Tulceu  as  a  whole,  the  thinkino'  of  the  human  mind  has 
never  been  nearer  the  central  line  of  truth,  than  while  it 
has  been  under  the  intluenceand  guidance  of  Christianity. 
Cin-istian  philosophy  is  far  nearer  this  centre  than  the 
best  schools  of  merely  Pagan  philosophy.  And  yet,  how 
fluctuating  has  been  the  movement,  and  what  constant 
need  there  has  been  of  an  absolute  standard  by  which  to 
determine  and  correct  the  aberrations  of  the  human  mind  ! 
We  think  that  in  his  strong  belief  that  Christianity  is  ab- 
solutely rational,  and  in  his  earnest  desire  to  exhibit  it  as 
such,  Coleridge  was  led,  at  times  certainly,  to  attribute  a 
greater  power  of  origination  to  the  finite  reason  than  it 
really  possesses,  and  to  forget,  that  as  an  endowment  super- 
induced, and  not  as  the  whole  essence  of  the  finite  mind, 
reason  in  man,  though  the  same  in  kind  with  the  Supreme 
Keason,  is  not  that  infinite  lylenitude  of  wisdom  which  is 
incommunicable  to  a  created  spirit.* 

We  have  been  the  more  free  and  full,  in  speaking  of  the 
views  of  Coleridge  upon  the  two  topics  of  vicarious 
Atonement^  and  Inspiration^  because  we  believe  that  the 
defect  in  them  originated  not  so  much  from  a  moral  as 
from  a  speculative  source.  AVe  have  already  spoken  of 
the  manner  in  which  he  identifies  himself  with  the  ortho- 
dox feelina:  and  view,  in  relation  to  the  doctrine  of  atone- 
ment,  when  himself  opposing  Socinianism,  and  any  one 
who  will  carefully  peruse  the  expressions  of  reverence 
for  the  Scriptures  which  spontaneously  break  from  him, 
and  bear  in  mind  that  whatever  may  be  the  actual  in- 
fluence^ the  serious  and  'boAoxxxw purpose oi  his  little  tract  was 
to  strengthen  the  Bible  in  its  claims  upon  the  human  in- 
tellect as  the  source  of  religious  knowledge,  cannot  doubt 

*  Compare  the  author's  Theological  Essays,  pp.  3  4-210. 


/ 
AND    THEOLOGIAN.  34:3 

that  Coleridge  was  induced  to  reject  the  common  theory 
of  Inspiration  from  a  conviction  that  it  really  defeated  its 
own  end,  and  not  because  he  wished  to  weaken,  in  the 
least,  the  belief  of  Christendom  in  the  divine  oracles. 
While,  therefore,  we  have  distinctly  expressed  our  convic- 
tions on  these  points,  we  wish  at  the  same  time  to  remind 
the  reader  that  these  defects,  though  important,  are  not 
the  substance  and  staple  of  the  theological  opinions  of  this 
author.  Notwithstanding  a  partial  disagreement  with  the 
Christian  mind  upon  these  subjects,  there  is  a  positive  and 
profound  agreement  with  it  on  all  the  other  important 
doctrines  of  Christianity ;  and  it  should  be  remembered 
tliat,  in  a  fundamental  agreement  with  such  a  body  of  truth 
as  the  Christian  religion,  a  basis  is  laid  for  the  ultimate 
correction  of  views  and  opinions  not  in  consonance  with 
it.  AVhen  a  mind  has  once  received  into  itself  the  sub- 
stance of  Christianity,  it  is  its  tendency  to  deepen  and  widen 
its  religious  consciousness,  and  in  this  process  foreign 
and  contradictory  elements  are  finally  cast  out  of  it  by  its 
own  saliency  and  vitality.  In  the  case  of  Coleridge,  it 
should  moreover  be  observed,  that  he  was  compelled  to  clear 
himself  of  systems  of  philosophy  and  religion  inimical  to 
a  theistic  philosophy  and  a  spiritual  Christianity,  in  and 
during  the  development  of  his  positive  and  final  opinions  ; 
and  hence,  that  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  these  latter 
should,  here  and  there,  exhi];it  the  vanishing  hues  of  the 
former.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  some  particles 
of  the  chaotic  slime  should  have  cleaved  to  him,  compel- 
led as  he  was  to  paw  himself  out  of  ground,  like  Milton's 

first  lion.* 

♦  Now  half  appeared 
Tlic  tawny  lion,  pawing  tof,'-et  free 
Ili.s  liinder  partw  ;  t)um  wpringH,  an  Ijroko  from  bouda, 
And  rampant  uhakus  hu  brindod  mane. 

Paradise  Lost.  VII.  4C3-46a 


34:4:  OOLERroGE   AS   A   PHILOSOPHER. 

TVc  have  now,  as  liriofly  as  possible,  touched  upon  the 
leadintif  points  in  the  philosophy  and  theoloo^y  of  Coleridj^e, 
thereby  to  show  what  are  the  i^eneral  drift  and  spirit  of 
his  specuhitions  in  these  two  higliest  departments  of 
knowledge.  We  have  not  been  anxious  to  defend  this 
autlior  u})on  each  and  every  one  of  tlie  various  topics  on 
which  he  has  given  the  world  his  thoughts,  believing  that 
on  some  of  them  he  is  indefensible.  At  the  same  time, 
we  have  expressed  a  decided  opinion,  that  in  respect  gen- 
erally to  the  highest  problems  of  pliilosophy  and  theology, 
the  opinions  of  Coleridge  arc  every  way  worthy  of 
being  classed  with  those  of  the  master  minds  of  the  race. 
We  are  confident  that  his  writings  contain,  after  subtract- 
ing the  subtrahend,  a  body  of  thought  upon  the  highest 
themes  of  reflection  well  worthy  of  the  study  of  every 
mind  that  is  seeking  a  deep,  clear,  and  exhaustive  develop- 
ment of  itself.  Into  the  great  variety  of  philosophical 
theories,  and  the  great  diversity  in  the  ways  and  methods 
of  thinking,  characteristic  of  this  age,  we  think  the  specu- 
lations of  Coleridge  deserve  to  be  cast,  and  believe  that 
just  in  proportion  as  they  ai'e  thoroughly  apprehended, 
and  thereby  enter  vitally  into  the  thinking  world,  will 
they  allay  the  furious  fermentation  that  is  going  on,  and 
introduce  unity,  order,  serenity,  and  health,  into  the  men- 
tal processes  of  the  times.  AVe  believe  that  they  will  do 
still  more  than  this.  We  believe  that  they  will  help  to 
fortify  the  minds  of  the  rising  generation  of  educated  men 
in  that  Platonic  method  of  philosophizing  which  has  come 
down  through  all  the  mutations  in  the  philosophic  world, 
which  has  survived  them  all,  which  more  than  any  other 
method  has  sliown  an  affinitv  with  religion,  natural  and  re- 
vealed,  and  which,  through  its  doctrine  of  seminal  and 
germinant  ideas,  has  been  the  fertile  root  of  all  the  finest 
growths  and  fruitage  of  the  human  mind. 


THE  COXFESSIOXS   OF  AUGUSTINE.* 


There  are  a  few  autobiographies  that  challenge  and 
receive  a  special  attention  from  age  to  age,  because  they 
possess  characteristics  that  are  not  found  in  the  common 
mass  of  such  productions.  They  are  the  unreserved  de- 
lineation of  an  extraordinary  intellect  and  of  a  remarka- 
ble experience.  They  embody  the  thoughts  of  a  deep 
mind  in  its  most  secret  and  absorbed  hours,  the  emotions 
of  a  vehement  soul  in  its  most  critical  and  impassioned 
moments.  In  them,  the  experiences  of  human  life  reach 
such  a  pitch  of  intensity,  and  such  a  breadth,  range,  and 
depth,  as  to  strike  the  reader  with  both  a  sense  of  famil- 
iarity and  a  serine  of  strangeness.  It  is  his  own  human 
thought  and  hunuin  feeling  that  he  finds  expressed ;  and 
yet  it  is  spoken  with  so  much  greater  clearness,  depth,  and 
energy,  than  he  is  himself  capable  of,  or  tlian  is  charac- 
teristic of  the  mass  of  men,  that  it  seems  like  tlie  experi- 
ence of  another  spliere  and  another  race  of  beings.  The 
ConfeHsions  of  AnguKt/ine  is  a  work  of  this  class;  and 
upon  sending  forth  aiu^her  edition  of  it,  we  seize  the  op- 
portunity to  notice  some  of  its  more  distinguishing  and 
remarkable  features. 

*  PubliHhcd  in  1851),  oh  an  intrrHluction  to  the  writer's  revision  of  the 
tranBlation  of  AugiiHtino'H  CoufeuHioiui. 
15* 


340  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF    AUGUSTINE. 

1.  The  first  characteristic  that  strikes  the  reader  is,  the 
singular  minyling  of  metuphyslcal  aiid  devotional  ele- 
ments in  the  work.  The  writer  passes,  with  a  freedom 
that  often  amounts  to  abruptness,  from  the  intensely 
practical  to  the  intensely  speculative.  In  the  very  midst 
of  his  confession  of  sin,  or  rejoicing  over  deliverance  fi-om 
it,  his  subtle  and  inquisitive  understanding  starts  a  ques- 
tion the  answer  to  which,  if  answei-  were  possible,  would 
involve  the  solution  of  all  the  problems  that  have  baffled 
the  metaphysical  mind  from  Thales  to  Hegel.  In  the 
yery  opening  of  the  work,  for  example,  when  the  sur- 
charged and  brimming  soul  is  swelling  with  its  thick- 
coming  emotions,  and  is  seeking  vent  for  its  sense  of  the 
divine  mercy  which  has  saved  it  from  everlasting  perdi- 
tion, it  slides  by  an  unconscious  transition  to  the  question : 
"  Jlow  shall  I  call  upon  my  God,  my  God  and  Lord,  since 
when  I  call  for  Ilim  I  shall  be  calling  Him  into  myself? 
And  what  room  is  there  within  me,  whither  mv  God  can 
come  into  me?  "Whither  can  God  come  into  me,  God  who 
made  heaven  and  earth."  *  At  the  very  moment  when 
Augustine  is  enjoying  the  most  heartfelt  and  positive 
communion  with  God,  his  intellect  feels  the  pressure  of 
the  standing  problem  respecting  the  possibility  of  such 
an  intercourse — the  problem  which  Howe  has  discussed 
with  such  ability  in  that  part  of  the  Living  Temple  where 
he  treats  of  the  "conversableness"  of  God.  Such  transi- 
tions are  perpetually  occurring,  until,  in  the  eleventh 
book,  the  author  leaves  his  autobiography  altogether,  and 
devotes  the  remainder  of  the  work  to  an  interpretation  of 
the  opening  chapters  of  Genesis,  in  which  he  debates  the 
most  recondite  questions  respecting  time  and  eternity,  the 
Creator  and  creation,  and  the  triunity  of  the  Divine 
Essence. 

*  Confessions,  I.  2. 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF   AUGUSTINE,  347 

It  is  not,  however,  from  any  open  or  lurking  skepticism, 
or  even  from  anv  mental  nnrest,  that  Auo-ustiue  raises 
such  inquiries.  The  great  men  in  the  Christian  church 
have  heen  little  troubled  by  skeptical  doubts.  Their  faith 
was  too  strong,  their  spiritual  insight  too  clear,  and  their 
work  too  pressing,  to  be  involved  in  that  languid  iniidelity 
which  assails  a  sentimental  religiousness,  ^\^ho  can  think 
of  the  Augustines,  the  Anselms,  the  Luthers,  the  Caivins, 
the  Knoxes,  and  the  Bunyans,  as  dallying  with  divine 
truth  instead  of  grasping  it ;  and  nttering,  instead  of  the 
clarion  tones  of  an  assured  and  triumphant  faith,  tlie  weak 
moan  of 

"  An  infant  crying  in  the  night; 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light ; 
And  with  no  language  but  a  cry." 

These  questions,  so  numerous  and  so  searching,  in  these 
Confessions,  are  not  the  issue  or  the  index  of  a  mind  tor- 
mented by  doubts.  They  are  only  the  exuberant  play  and 
careerinjir  of  a  subtle  aud  thoui^htful  intellect,  from  the 
vantage-ground  of  a  living  and  victorious  trust.  Con- 
scious of  being  now,  at  last,  at  rest  in  God,  the  centre  of 
being  and  blessedness,  Augustine  allows  his  mind  to  pose 
itself  with  the  infinite  truths  that  are  involved  in  the  child- 
like faith  of  the  Christian.  His  purpose  is  not  to  unsettle 
his  own  belief,  or  that  of  his  reader;  but  by  the  mere  im- 
mensity of  truth  to  stagger  and  overwhelm  the  under- 
standing, and  thereby  fill  the  soul  with  that  sense  of  mj's- 
tery  which  is  at  once  the  constitiient  element  of  awe  and 
tlie  nutriment  of  worship.  Nothing  can  be  farther  from 
infidelity  than  the  spirit  with  which  Augustine  raises 
these  inquiries  respecting  time,  eternity,  the  nature  of  God 
iind  the  human  soul,  the  possibility  and  manner  of"  crea 
titui  from  nothing,  the  nature  of  mattci',  and  the  origin  of 
evil.     Neither  is  there  anything  of  gnostic  jjuriusity  and 


348  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF   AUGUSTINE, 

pride,  in  his  approaclics  to  the  frontiers  of  this  reahn  of 
mystery,  lie  merely  desires,  by  this  tentative  method, 
to  fill  his  own  mind,  already  believing,  hoping  and  rejoic- 
ino;  in  divine  realities,  with  a  more  distinct  consciousness 
of  the  infinitude  of  the  world  beyond  space  and  time,  and 
of  those  facts  and  truths  which,  in  his  own  phrase,  cannot 
enter  by  any  of  the  avenues  of  the  tlesh.  Hence,  his 
qnestionings  leave  him  humble,  while  they  leave  him  more 
self-intelligent.  His  speculation  issues  from  his  religious 
life  and  feelijig,  and  helps  both  to  clarify  and  deepen 
it.  In  other  words,  Augustine  is  here  practising  upcm 
his  own  celebrated  dictum,  that  faith  precedes  scientijiG 
knowledge.  The  practical  belief  of  the  truths  of  Christi- 
anity contains  much  that  is  latent  and  undeveloped.  The 
Christian  is  wiser  than  he  knows.  The  moment  he  be- 
gins to  examine  the  implications  of  his  own  vivid  personal 
experience,  he  finds  that  they  contain  the  entire  rudiraen- 
tal  matter  of  Christian  science.  For  example,  he  believes 
in  the  oneliving  and  personal  God.  But,  the  instant  he 
commences  the  analysis  of  this  idea  of  ideas,  in  the  con- 
struction of  the  ontological  argument,  he  discovej'S  its  pro- 
found capacity  and  its  vast  implication.  Again,  he  be- 
lieves in  God  incarnate.  But,  when  he  endeavors  to  com- 
prehend what  is  involved  in  this  fact  and  truth,  he  is 
overwhelmed  by  the  richness  of  its  contents,  and  the 
multitude  of  its  relations.  His  faith  has  positively  and 
strongly  grasped  these  ideas  of  God  and  the  God-man ; 
but,  to  employ  an  illustration  of  Bernard,  it  has  grasped 
them  in  their  closed  and  involuted  form.*  If  he  would 
pass,  now,  from  faith  to  scientific  reason,  he  needs  only  to 

*  "Intellectus  ration!  iunititur,  fides  authoritati,  opinio  sola  veri- 
similitudine  se  tuetur.  Habent  ilia  duo  certam  veritatem,  sed  fides 
clausam  et  involutam,  intelligeutia  nudam  et  manifestam." — Bernar- 
dus,  De  Consideratione,  Lib,  V,  cap,  3, 


THE   CONFESSIOiSrS   OF   AUGUSTINE.  349 

reflect  upon  the  intrinsic  meaning  of  these  ideas,  until 
they  open  along  the  lines  of  their  structure,  and  are  per- 
ceived philosophically,  though  not  exhaustively.  But, 
in  this  process,  faith  itself  is  reinforced  aud  deepened  by 
a  reiiex  action,  while,  at.  the  same  time,  the  intellect  is 
kept  reverent  and  vigilant,  because  the  cognition,  thongh 
positive  and  correct  as  far  as  it  reaches,  is  not  exhaustive 
and  complete,  only  by  reason  of  the  immensity  and  infini- 
tude of  the  object. 

Holding  such  a  theory  of  the  relation  of  reason  to  faith, 
Auo-ustine  never  shrinks  from  makino;  excursions  into  the 
region  of  metaphysical  truth.  Although  he  uniformly 
approaches  the  problems  of  theology  npon  their  most  dif- 
ficult side,  and  never  attempts  to  become  clear  by  becom- 
ing shallow,  yet  there  is  little  fear  of  philosophy,  and  still 
less  disparagement  of  reason  in  the  writings  of  the  bishop 
of  Hij)po.  And  this,  because  of  the  above-mentioned 
tiieory.  Always  making  his  own  vital  and  confident 
faith  the  point  frf)m  wliich  he  departs,  and  to  which  he 
returns,  he  is  at  once  bold  and  safe.  Go  where  he  may, 
he  cannot  lose  sight  of  his  pole-star ;  and  thus  he  always 
keeps  his  northing.  Like  the  mariner  far  out  at  sea,  and 
with  a  strong  shij)  under  him,  lie  careers  courageously 
over  the  waste  of  waters,  with  no  dread  of  a  lee  shore  or 
of  suidccn  rocks.  Hence  the  fretpiency,  and  oftentimes 
the  strange  abruptness,  of  his  metaj)hysical  query ings.  lie 
knows  that  all  truth  is  consistent  with  itself,  and  that  the 
philosophical  answer,  if  it  come  at  all,  must  come  out  (jf 
the  nuiterial  furnished  by  the  Christian  consciousness. 
His  reason  cannot  contradict  his  faith,  because  it  is  homo- 
geneous and  c()iisul)sfantial  with  it.  The  former  is  the 
evolution,  the  latter  is  the  involution. 

2.  A  second  cliaracteristic  of  Augustine's  Confessions  is 
tlie  union  of  a  iiviiiu,te  and  exhaustive  detail  of  sin^  with 


".)0  TIIIC   CONFESSIONS   OF   ADGU8TINE. 

the  most  intense  and  spiritual  oblwrrenGe  of  it.  The  only 
work  in  any  language  that  bears  any  comparison  with 
this  of  the  North  African  Father,  is  that  in  which  Ilous- 
Beau  pours  out  his  life  of  passion  and  evil  concupiscence. 
There  is  the  same  abandon  and  unreserve  in  each ;  the 
same  particularity  in  recounting  the  past  conduct ;  the 
same  subtle  unwinding  of  the  course  of  transgression. 
Each  absorbs  himself  iu  his  own  biography,  with  an  en- 
tireness  and  simplicity  that  precludes  any  thought  for  a 
spectator  or  a  listener,  any  regard  for  either  an  unfeel- 
ing or  a  sympathizing  woi-ld  of  readers.  Augustine  and 
Rousseau,  both  alike,  withdraw  into  the  secret  and  silent 
confessional  of  their  own  memories  and  recollections,  and 
there  pour  out  their  confidences  with  utter  self-abandon- 
ment. 

But,  the  resemblance  ceases  at  this  point.  The  motive 
prompting  the  confession,  and  the  emotions  that  accom- 
pany it,  are  as  different  as  light  from  darkness,  as  Christ 
from  Belial.  Augustine's  confession  is  really  such — an 
acknowledgment  to  God.  Rousseau's  recital  is  a  soliloquy 
that  never  goes  beyond  himself.  The  Christian  bishop 
confesses  his  past  sinful  life,  ordy  that  he  may  magnify 
and  make  his  boast  iu  that  unmerited  grace  which  plucked 
liim  •'  from  the  bottom  of  the  bottondess  pit."  *  lie  brings 
out  his  secret  and  scarlet  sins  into  the  lio^iit  of  his  mem- 
ory,  that  he  may  praise  the  God  of  his  salvation  for  his 
marvellous  pity.  "  I  svill  now  call  to  mind,"  he  says, 
"  my  past  foidness,  and  the  carnal  corruptions  of  my  soul ; 
not  because  I  love  them,  but  that  I  may  love  Thee,  O  my 
God.  For  love  of  Thy  love,  I  do  it ;  reviewing  my  most 
wicked  ways  in  the  very  bitterness  of  my  remembrance, 
that  Thou  may  est  grow  sweet  unto  me."  f     The  mirute- 

*  Confessions,  II.  4. 
flbid.,  II.  1. 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF   AUGUSTINE.  351 

ness,  the  plainness,  and  the  exhaustiveness  of  his  account 
of  his  sinful  life,  (^nly  sets  in  stronger  relief  the  strange- 
ness of  the  mercy  that  lifted  him  out  of  it ;  only  fills  him 
•with  a  deliiium  of  joy  and  love  towards  his  redeeming 
God.  How  diflferent  all  this  is  from  the  motive  and  the 
feeling  of  Rousseau,  it  is  needless  to  say.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary, perhaps,  to  affirm  the  existence  of  a  deliberate  inten- 
tion to  debauch  the  world  by  those  impenitent  and  shame- 
less confessions  of  sin  and  guilt,  though  such  is  unques- 
tionably the  inevitable  tendency  of  them.  It  is  enough 
to  say,  that  there  certainly  was  no  intention  to  waken  ab- 
hoiTcnce  of  evil  by  means  of  them  ;  and  still  less  to  re- 
flect any  light  upon  the  Divine  character  and  government. 
The  impelling  motive  probably  was,  to  relieve  an  migov- 
erned  and  restless  nature,  by  a  simple  overflow  of  the 
pent-up  elements.  Rousseau  merely  followed  that  im- 
pulse of  a  burdened  soul  which  necessitates  self-utter- 
ance :  that  law  of  both  mind  and  matter  which  inexorably 
forbids  the  perpetual  suppression  of  struggling  elements 
and  forces.  All  the  devices  of  man  cannot  choke  down 
even  the  smallest  spring  of  water,  so  that  it  shall  never 
come  to  the  surface;  and  all  the  efforts  of  men  and  angels 
combined  camiot  keep  under,  in  eternal  burial,  the  emo- 
tions and  passions  of  an  inordinate  and  billow}''  spirit. 
Under  this  stress  and  pressure,  the  "self-torturing  soph- 
ist" enters  into  the  detail  of  his  unwortliy  and  unha])- 
])y  life,  without  the  slightest  recognition  of  the  claims  of 
law,  and  apparently  without  the  slightest  fear  of  its  ret- 
ributions. The  wild  and  passionate  rehearsal  goes  on, 
but  with  no  reference  either  to  the  holiness  or  the  mercy 
of  the  Su[)remc  ;  witli  no  aUusion  to  the  solemn  relations 
of  an  immortal  spii-it  either  to  time  or  to  eternity. 

Again,  while  Augustine  relates  the  sins  of  liis  youtli, 
and  his  transgressions,  with  a  plainness  which  the  fucti- 


352  THE   CONFESSIONS    OF    AUGUSTINE. 

tious  modesty  of  an  inwardly  impure  mind  has  sometimes 
condemned,  it  is  always  with  the  most  genuine  and  unaf- 
fected  sorrow  and  abliorrence.  A  more  sincere  book  than 
tiie  Confessions  of  Augustine  was  never  written.  Every 
statement  of  sin  is  a  wail  over  it.  Rivers  of  water  run 
down  the  relator's  eyes,  because  he  has  not  kept  the  divine 
law.  The  plainness  of  this  book  is  like  that  of  the  proph- 
ecy of  Ezekiel ;  the  vilencss  is  brought  out  into  sight,  only 
that  it  may  be  trampled  and  stamped  upon.  The  ethical 
indignation  is  like  that  of  Moses,  when  he  ground  the 
golden  calf  to  powder,  and  mingling  it  with  water  made 
the  people  drink  it  down.  And  yet  it  is  not  a  spasmodic 
or  an  affected  reprobation.  From  the  deptlis  of  a  now 
spiritualized  mind,  Augustine  abhors  his  past  iniquity. 
lie  is  a  new  creature  ;  old  things  have  passed  away,  and 
all  things  have  become  new.  With  the  clear  and  crystal- 
line eye  of  the  cherubim,  he  looks  into  the  hole  of  the  pit 
whence  he  was  digged,  and  beholds  according  to  truth. 
There  is  no  furtive  glance  towards  the  past  voluptuous- 
ness. It  is  seen  to  be  sin  and  guilt,  meriting  the  wrath 
and  curse  of  God,  and  fit  only  to  be  burned  up  in  the  con- 
suminjy  fire  of  the  Divine  immaculateness.  All  this  is 
perceived  with  calmness  and  certainty  ;  so  that  the  judg- 
ment of  damnation,  which  is  passed  by  this  autobiog- 
rapher  upon  his  personal  corruption,  is  deep  and  tranquil, 
like  that  of  the  bar  of  final  doom. 

3.  But  this  is  only  a  negative  excellence.  A  third  char- 
acteristic of  this  work  is  that  it  palpitates  with  the  positive 
love  of  God  and  goodness.  The  writer  does  not  merely 
look  back  with  aversion  and  abhorrence,  but  he  looks 
forward  with  aspiration  and  longing.  He  gazes  with 
a  steady  and  rapt  eye  upon  the  supernal  Beauty — the 
heavenly  Eros.  His  spiritualized  perception  reposes  with 
joy  unutterable  and  full  of  glorying  upon  the  perfections 


THE   CONFESSIONS    OF   AUGUSTINE.  353 

of  God,  and  the  realities  of  eteniity.  Hear  his  impassioned 
utterance  :  '*  Not  with  doubtino^,  but  with  assured  con- 
sciousness, do  I  love  Thee,  Lord.  But  what  do  I  love, 
when  I  love  Thee  ?  Not  the  beauty  of  bodies,  nor  the 
fair  harmony  of  time,  nor  the  briglitness  of  the  light  so 
gladsome  to  our  e3'es,  nor  sweet  melodies  of  varied  songs, 
nor  the  fragrant  smell  of  flowers,  and  ointments,  and 
spices,  not  manna  and  honey,  not  limbs  acceptable  to  the 
embracements  of  flesh.  None  of  these  do  I  love  when  I 
love  m}"  God.  And  yet,  I  love  a  kind  of  light,  a  kind  of 
melody,  a  kind  of  fragance,  a  kind  of  food,  and  a  kind  of 
embracement,  wlien  1  love  my  God — the  light,  the  melo- 
dy, the  fragrance,  the  food,  the  embracement  of  the  inner 
man  :  where  there  shineth  unto  my  soul  what  space  can- 
not contain,  and  there  soundeth  what  time  bearcth  not 
away,  and  there  smelleth  what  breathing  disperseth  not, 
and  there  tasteth  what  eating  diminisheth  not,  and  there 
clingeth  what  satiety  divorceth  not.  This  is  it  which  I 
love  when  I  love  my  God."  The  entire  emotiveness  of 
that  deep,  passionate,  North-African  nature  has  been  trans- 
ferred from  sense  to  spirit,  from  time  to  eternity,  from 
earth  to  heaven,  from  the  creature  to  the  Creator,  and 
now  flows  on  like  the  river  of  God  which  is  full  of  water. 
Indeed,  the  feeling  which  Augustine  bears  towards  the 
blessed  triune  Gud  cannot  be  better  expressed  than  by 
the  word  affectionateness.  There  is  in  his  experience  awe 
"  deep  as  the  centre  ;  "  there  is  humility  absolute;  there 
is  the  reviirential  fear  of  the  wing- veiled  clierubim  ;  but 
there  is  also,  in  and  through  it  all,  that  conliding,  child- 
like love  which  is  both  warranted  and  elicited  by  the 
dying  prayer  of  the  Redeemer.  This  man,  who  so  often 
denominates  himself  "  abominable,"  "  miserable,"  and 
"  godless  ;  "  who  prostrates  his  whole  being  in  shame  and 
grief  unspeakable  before  the  inflnite  and  adorable  majes- 


354  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF   AUGUSTINE. 

ty  of  God  ;  yet  finds  an  answer  in  his  own  regenerate 
consciousness  to  the  wonderful  supplication  of  the  Re- 
deemer, that  his  redeemed  "  all  may  be  one,  as  Thou 
Father  art  in  me,  and  I  in  Thee  ;  tliat  they  may  be  one 
even  as  we  are  one  ;  I  in  tliem,  and  Thou  in  me,  that  they 
may  be  made  perfect  in  one." 

This  sense  of  union  with  God  is  very  vivid  in  this  Latin 
Father  ;  as  it  is,  also,  in  some  of  the  more  spiritual  of  the 
schoolmen — particularly  Anselm  and  Bernard.  It  is  very 
different,  however,  from  that  vague  feeling  of  the  mystic 
theologian  which,  even  in  its  best  forms,  sometimes  hovers 
■upon  the  borders  of  pantheism,  and  in  its  worst  forms,  as 
in  Eckart  and  Silesius,  is  little  better  than  the  Hindoo 
absorption  in  the  Deity.  On  tlie  contraiy,  it  is  that  intel- 
liirent  consciousness  of  union  with  God  which  issues  from 
the  evangelical  sense  of  reconciliation  with  Him  through 
the  hlood  of  Christ.  The  ideas  of  incarnation  and  re- 
demption shape  the  whole  experience  of  Augustine,  and 
his  communion  with  God  has  its  root  in  the  sense  of  sin 
and  the  sense  of  mercy.  13 ut  these  two  utterly  preclude 
the  pantheistic  intuition.  He  who  feels  himself  to  be 
guilty  knows  most  piercingly  that  God  and  man  are  two 
distinct  beings.  And  he  who  has  rejoiced  in  the  mani- 
fested pity  of  the  Creator  towards  the  creature  cannot  pos- 
sibly confound  tl}e  two,  either  in  philosopliy  or  theology. 
And  such  is  the  foundation  upon  which  Augustine's  filial 
and  affectionate  communion  with  God  rests.  He  knows 
that  if  God  spared  not  his  own  Son,  but  freely  gave  him 
up  a  sacrifice  for  a  guilty  crcatui-e  like  himself,  he  will 
surely,  after  this  transaction,  freely  give  him  all  tilings. 
Springing  from  this  evangelical  root,  the  affectionateuess 
of  Augustine,  wherel)y  he  cries,  Abba,  Father,  is  totally 
different,  also,  from  that  fatal  form  of  self-deception  seen 
in  the  sentimentalist's  love  of  God.     He  does  not  presume 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF   AUGUSTINE.  355 

to  cast  himself  upon  the  Divine  mercy,  until  he  has  first 
recognized  and  acquiesced  in  the  Divine  justice.  These 
Confessions  contain  none  of  that  religionsness  to  which 
the  intrinsic  and  eternal  dainnableness  of  sin  is  an  offen- 
sive truth,  and  which  avoids  all  the  retributive  and  judicial 
aspects  of  revelation.  Augustine  never  shrinks  from  the 
fact,  that  a  creature's  free  and  wilful  transgression  in  its 
own  nature  merits,  and,  without  faith  in  Christ's  blood  of 
atonement,  will  receive,  an  evei'lasting  punishment  from  the 
living  God.  lie  knows  that  the  doctrine,  of  genuine  unsel- 
fish penitence  for  sni  stands,  or  falls,  with  that  of  an  absolute 
ill-desert  and  an  everlasting  penalty  ;  that  every  species 
of  religious  anxiety  which  reluctates  at  Christ's  represen- 
tations of  the  final  doom,  and  at  the  scripture  doctrine  that 
only  Christ's  atonement  stands  between  a  sinner  and  eternal 
perdition,  is  spurious  ;  and  that  he  who  would  "  climb  up 
some  other  way  "  to  throw  himself  into  the  arms  of  tiie 
Hedeeraer,  before  he  has  knelt  with  a  broken  heart  at  the 
bar  of  the  Judge,  will  ultimately  meet  a  terrific  rebuke  to 
his  presumption  and  moral  worthlessness.  Augustine's 
trust  in  the  compassion  of  God  has  for  its  antecedent  the 
distinct  consciousness  of  the  "  wrath  to  come."  The  Di- 
vine love  is,  for  his  mind,  a  self-sacrificing  yiiy  that  "  bore 
his  sins  on  the  tree,"  and  thereby  delivered  him  from  an 
infinite  infli(;tion  that  was  merited  and  actually  impending, 
or  it  would  not  have  been  vicariously  endured"  by  incar- 
nate God.  "  I  was  going,"  he  says,  in  reference  to  a  dan- 
gerous si<;kness  in  his  youth,  "  I  was  going  down  to  hell, 
carrying  all  the  sin.s  wiiich  i  iiad  committed  both  against 
Thee  an<l  inysolf  and  others,  many  ami  grievous  sins,  over 
and  above  that  l)ond  of  original  sni  whereby  we  all  (.lie  in 
Adam.  For,  Thou  hadst  not  forgiven  me  any  of  these 
things  in  (Jhrist,  nor  liad  He  abolished  by  His  cross  the  en- 
mity which  by  ray  sins  I  had  incurred  with  Thee.     And, 


35 G  'lUK   CONFESSIONS   OF    AUGUSTINE. 

now,  the  fever  heighteninf^,  I  was  parting  and  departiTig 
for  ever.  For,  had  I  then  parted  hence,  whither  had  I 
departed  but  into  fire  and  torments  such  as  my  misdeeds 
deserved  in  the  truth  of  Thy  appointment."* 

Such  tlioroughness  in  Augustine's  experience  of  both 
tiie  justice  and  the  mercy  of  Clod  resulted  in  an  undoubt- 
inrj  conlidence  in  God.  The  trustfuhiess  of  his  feeling 
towards  the  Dread  Supreme  exhibits  itself,  sometimes, 
like  the  prattling  of  a  child  :  "  I  beseech  Thee,  my  God, 
1  would  fain  know,  if  so  Thou  wiliest,  for  what  pur- 
pose \vas  my  baptism  then  deferred  ?  Was  it  for  my  good 
that  the  rein  was  laid  loose,  as  it  were,  upon  me,  for  me 
to  sin  ?  "  f  "  Bear  with  me,  my  God,  while  I  say  some- 
thing of  my  talents — Thy  gift — and  on  what  dotages  I 
wasted  them." :{:  In  fact,  the  whole  life,  the  entire  expe- 
rience of  Augustine,  with  all  that  is  insignificant  equally 
with  all  that  is  great  in  it,  is  poured  into  the  ear  of  the 
Divine  Confessor.  To  God  there  is  nothing  great  and 
nothing  small  ;  and  this  penitent,  childlike,  and  affection- 
ate soul  passes  from  point  to  point  in  its  detail,  without 
stopping  to  measure  or  compare.  The  Divine  ear  is  not 
heavy  that  it  cannot  hear  even  the  minutest  items  of  the 
penitential  record,  and  the  filial,  grateful  heart  is  never 
tired  of  the  exhaustive  confession  and  rehearsal. 

Such  an  experience  of  both  the  law  and  the  gospel 
brought  Augustine  into  most  intimate  relations  with 
God.  "  Sometimes,"  he  says,  "  Thou  admittest  me  to  an 
affection  very  unusual,  in  my  inmost  soul ;  i-ising  to  a 
strange  sweetness,  which,  if  it  were  perfected  in  me,  I 
kn(.)vv  not  what  in  it  would  not  belong  to  the  life  to  come."  § 

*  Confessions,  V.  9. 
flbid.,  I.  11. 
ilbid.,  I.  17. 
§Ibid.,  X  11. 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF   AUGUSTINE.  357 

The  Modern  Church  is  too  destitute  of  this  child-like 
affection ateness  and  this  fervor  of  love.  It  is  certainly 
striking  to  pass  from  the  more  formal  and  reserved  types 
of  religious  experience,  characteristic  of  an  over-civilized 
Christendom,  to  the  simple  and  gushing  utterances  of 
Augustine,  Anselm,  and  Bernard.  "  Too  late  1  loved 
Thee,  O  Thou  Beauty  of  ancient  days,  yet  ever  new  !  Too 
late  I  loved  Thee.  Oh,  that  I  might  repose  on  Thee ! 
Oh  !  that  Thou  wouldest  enter  into  my  heart,  and  inebri- 
ate it.  O  Thou  sweetness  never  failing.  Thou  blissful 
and  assured  sweetness."  *  In  one  of  the  Soliloquies  as- 
cribed to  him,  Augustine  addresses  God  as  both  father  and 
mother :  "  Et  tu  Doinine  Deus  pater  orphanorum,  et  tu 
mater  pnpillorum  tuorum,  audi  ejulatum  tiliorum  tuo- 
rura."  The  soul  follows  hard  after  God,  and  its  pantings 
often  find  a  natural  expression  in  language  and  terms  as 
fervid  as  those  which  we  are  wont  to  associate  only  with 
the  most  absorbing  and  consuming  of  earthly  passions. 
The  rhythmi(;al  and  sonorous  Roman  speech  becomes  yet 
more  deep-toned  and  sounding  in  its  note,  as  the  rapt 
mind  rises  upon  the  wings  of  spii'itual  intuition  and 
ecstasy.  The  su])crlative  becomes  the  positive.  "  Dulcis- 
BJme,  amantissime,  benignissime,  preciosissime,  deside- 
rantissime,  amabilissime,  pulcherrimc  ;  tu  mclle  dulcior, 
lacte  et  iiivc  candidior,  nectarc  suavior,  gemmis  et 
auro  preciosior,  cunctisque  tcrrarum  divitiis  et  honoribus 
mihi  carior,  quaiido  te  videbo  ?  Qnando  apparebo  ante 
facicm  tuam  i    Quaiido  satiabor  de  pulchritudiiie  tua^"f 

*  ConfeHHioiiH,  X.  27  ;  I.  5  ;    11.  1 . 

f  Augiistini,  Opera,  VI.  874,  U28,  nq.  Ed.  Migne.  Tlie  Rolilor|uic8 
and  JNIf^ditations.  from  wliicli  tbc;.so  extracts  are  taken,  are  i)rol)ably 
ungenuiue,  but  tlic  remark  of  Era.smuH  respectiuy  them  is  true  •  "  Auo- 
torem  e»80  vol  AuguHtinum,  vel  qui  ejus  lihroH  non  iudiligeutor  legit.'' 
They  bear  the  inarkB,  however,  of  llomiah  inter[)olation. 


358  TIIE   CONFESSIONS   OF   AUGUSTINE. 

This  language,  it  should  be  remembered,  flows  from  a 
mind  that  is  naturally  speculative  and  dialectic  ;  that  has 
meditated  not  merely  profoundly,  but  systematicall}',  upon 
the  being-  aiul  attributes  of  God.  It  is  not  the  utterance  of 
a  sentimentalist,  but  of  a  robust  understanding,  out  of 
which  issued  the  most  logical  and  severe  of  the  ancient 
types  of  Christian  theology.  When  we  find  the  most  ab- 
stract and  intellectual  of  the  Christian  fathers  dissolving 
in  tears,  or  soaring  in  ecstasy,  we  may  be  certain  that  the 
emotion  flows  from  truth  and  reality.  When  the  rock 
gushes  out  water,  we  may  be  sure  that  it  is  pure  water. 
Were  it  not  that  we  find  the  systematic  writings  of 
Augustine,  which  constitute  the  great  bulk  of  his  works, 
calm  as  reason  itself,  consecutive  as  logic  itself,  and 
entirely  free  from  extravagance,  we  might  query  whether 
a  sinful  mortal,  an  imperfectly  sanctified  man,  could  use 
such  language  as  the  above,  without  a  latent  insincerity; 
or,  at  least,  without  running  far  in  advance  of  his  real 
emotions.  But  such  soliloquies  and  meditations  are  the 
moments  of  Christian  and  saintly  inspiration  ;  hours 
when  the  deep  and  subtle  reasoning  of  the  renewed  mind, 
having  reached  its  term,  becomes  hushed  and  breathless 
in  the  spiritual  intuition,  and  passes  over  into  awe  and 
worship.  The  knowledge  of  the  cherub  becomes  the  love 
of  the  seraph.  The  one  is  the  dark  root,  the  other  the 
bri<''ht  consummate  flower  of  reliij'ion. 

One  who  imbues  his  mind  with  the  spirit  of  Augustine's 
Confessions  finds  no  difficulty,  therefore,  in  understanding 
the  Song  of  Solomon — the  figures  and  phrases  of  which 
are  so  frequently  employed  in  the  meditations  and  pray- 
ers of  the  great  fathers  and  schoolmen.  An  earthly  exe- 
gesis can  interpret  this  song  of  songs  only  from  its  own 
jjoint  of  view.  The  conceptions,  figures,  and  terms  of  the 
spiritual  lyric  are  instinctivelj'  referred  to  earthly  rela- 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF   ATJaUSTIKE.  359 

tioriships.  An  nnspiritual  mind  cannot,  by  any  possi- 
bility, rise  into  the  pure  ether  and  element  of  incorporeal 
and  heavenly  Beauty,  in  which  the  writer  of  this  canticle 
moves  his  wings.  But  not  so  the  Augustines,  the  An- 
sehns,  and  the  Bernards.  These  purged  and  clear  eyes 
were  granted,  at  certain  favored  hours,  and  as  the  result 
of  their  lono-  vio-ils  and  meditations,  the  immortal  vision 
of  the  pure  in  heart.  And  the  innnortal  vision  wakened 
the  innnoi'tal  lono-inor.  The  environment  of  earth  and 
time  became  a  prison  to  the  now  illuminated  spirit,  and  it 
pined  for  the  hill  of  frankincense  and  the  mountains  of 
myrrh.  Having  seen  the  King  in  his  beauty,  the  holy 
and  ethereal  soul  fell  into  love-longing.* 

4.  A  fourth  striking  characteristic  of  these  Confessions 
is,  the  insight  which  thoy  afford  into  the  origin  ami jxrog- 
ress  of  the  Christian  experience.  They  are  the  best  com- 
mentary yet  written  upon  the  seventh  and  eighth  cha])ters 
of  Romans.  That  quickening  of  the  human  spirit,  which 
puts  it  again  into  vital  and  sensitive  relations  to  the  holy 
and  the  eternal;  that  illumination  of  the  mind,  whereby 
it  is  enabled  to  perceive  with  clearness  the  real  nature  of 
trutii  and  righteousness;  that  empowering  of  the  will,  to 

*  The  expeiicnce  of  the  elder  Edwards  exhibits  these  same  character- 
iHticH.  "  I  began,"  he  says,  "  to  have  a  new  kiiul  of  apprehension  and  idea 
of  Christ  and  the  work  of  redemption.  My  niind  was  greatly  engaged  in 
meditations  on  Christ,  on  the  beauty  and  excellence  of  his  person. 
These  words  used  to  he  abundantly  with  me  :  '  I  am  the  Rose  of 
Sliaron,  and  the  Lily  of  the  valleys.'  'I'he.so  words  sueincd  to  me 
Bweetly  to  repre.sent  the  loveliness  and  beauty  of  Jesus  Christ.  Tlio 
•whole  l)0ok  of  Canticles  used  to  be  jileusant  to  nie,  and  1  used  to  be 
much  in  reading  it.  The  sense  I  had  of  divine  things  would  often,  of 
a  sudden,  kimllo  up  as  it  were  a  sweet  burning  in  my  heart ;  an  ardor  of 
Houl  tliat  I  know  not  how  to  express." — This  rajjt,  exulting  vision  of 
the  Divine  beauty  and  majesty,  wliicli  fell  upun  him  like  the  dawn,  iu 
the  beg'innin^  of  his  Christian  life,  would,  in  the  middle  ages,  have 
given  him  the  title  of  the  "  angelic,"  or  the  "  seraphic  "  doctor. 


360  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF   AUGUSTINE. 

the  coiifUct  and  the  victory — tlie  entire  process  of  restoring 
the  divine  image  in  the  soul  of  man — is  delineated  in  this 
book  with  a  vividness  and  reality  never  exceeded  by  the 
nninspired  mind.  And  particularly  is  the  bondage  of  the 
fallen  will  brought  to  view.  Augustine,  though  subject 
to  2:)angs  of  conscience,  and  the  forebodings  of  an  unpar- 
d  ■)ned  soul,  from  his  earliest  years,  did  not,  nevertheless, 
attain  evangelical  peace  until  the  thirty-second  year  of  his 
life.  lie  died  at  the  age  of  seventy-six ;  so  that  nearly 
one-half  of  his  earthly  existence  was  spent  in  unregene- 
racy.  He  was  born  and  bred  in  the  midst  of  paganism, 
and  his  tropical  North-African  nature  immersed  itself  in 
the  ambition  and  sensuality  of  his  clime  and  his  race,  with 
an  intensity  to  which  the  career  of  a  Rousseau,  a  Byron, 
or  a  Heine,  affords  a  nearer  parallel  than  does  anything 
that  meets  the  eye  in  the  externally  decent  and  restrained 
life  of  modern  society.  To  such  a  soul  of  flame,  was 
xittered  in  tones  that  startled,  and  tones  that  shattered,  and 
^ones  that  for  a  moment  paralyzed,  the  solemn  words : 
"  Not  in  rioting  and  drunkenness,  not  in  chambering  and 
W'antonness,  not  in  strife  and  envying ;  but  put  ye  on  the 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  make  not  provision  for  the  flesh." 
It  was,  at  first,  like  the  giving  up  of  the  ghost.  The  effort 
to  obey  was  convulsive.  "  Thou,  O  Lord,  didst  press  upon 
me  inwardly  with  a  severe  mercy,  redoubling  the  lashes  of 
fear  and  shame  lest  I  should  again  give  way,  and  not 
bursting  that  slight  remaining  tie  it  should  recover 
strength,  and  bind  me  faster.  For  I  said  within  myself, 
'  Be  it  done  now,  be  it  done  now.'  And  as  I  spake,  I  all 
Lut  performed  it.  I  all  but  did  it,  and  did  it  not ;  yet 
sunk  not  back  to  my  former  state,  but  kept  my  stand  hard 
b}',  and  tooh  breath.  And  I  essa3'ed  again,  and  lacked 
somewhat  less  of  it,  and  somewhat  less,  and  all  but  touched 
and  laid  hold  u^wn  it ;  hesitating  to  die  to  death,  and  to 

la 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF    AUGUSTDfE.  361 

live  to  life.  And  the  worse,  whereto  I  was  accustomed, 
prevailed  more  with  me  than  the  better,  whereto  I  was  un- 
used ;  and  when  the  moment  approached  when  I  was  to  be- 
come other  than  I  was,  the  greater  dismay  did  it  strike 
into  me ;  yet  did  it  not  strike  me  back,  nor  turn  me  away, 
but  held  me  in  suspense."  *  What  a  subtle  and  most 
truthful  glimpse  into  the  workings  of  inveterate  sin,  which 
has  grown  with  his  growth,  and  strengthened  with  his 
strength,  is  afforded  in  the  petition  of  his  early  manhood : 
"  Give  me  continence,  only  not  yet.''''  f  These,  and  a  hun- 
dred others  like  them,  bring  the  whole  inward  struggle  into 
plain  view.  It  is  a  real  conflict  in  which  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  suffers  violence,  and  the  violent  take  it  by  force. 
We  know  of  no  other  religious  book,  except  the  Bible 
and  Pilgrim's  Progress,  that  makes  so  deeji  an  impression 
of  reality  as  this  one.  Keligion,  in  the  experience  here 
delineated,  is  veritable.  The  fears  and  forebodings  that 
lierald  it  are  actual.  The  pangs  and  throes  that  bring  it 
to  the  birth  are  actual.  The  joys  and  sorrows,  the  assur- 
ance and  the  doubts  thal;-accompany  its  growth  are  actual. 
As  the  doctrinal  system  of  Augustine  rests  upon  a  basis  of 
realism,  so  does  his  practical  life  and  history.  There  is 
nothing,  upon  cither  side,  that  is  nominal,  fictitious,  ideal. 
But,  the  whole  excellence  of  this  delineation  of  the 
bondage  of  the  apostate  will,  which  is  the  cause  of  all  this 
struggle,  will  not  be  perceived,  unless  it  be  noticed  that 
Augustine  continually  refers  the  enslavement  to  the  crea- 
ture himself,  and  never  to  the  Creator.  It  is  the  2)roduct 
of  man's  self-determination,  and  not  of  that  creative  fiat 
by  which  man  was  oi-iginally  made  a  holy,  and  an  uii- 
enslaved  Hj)irit  in  the  image  of  (iod.  "My  ^l)Ul  the  ene- 
my held,  and  thoice  had  made  a  chain  for  me,  and   bound 

*  ConfesHionn,  VIII.  II. 
t  I'''J-.  VIII.  7. 


3G2  Till:   C0NFKS8I0NS   OF    AUGUSTINE. 

me.  For,  of  a  perverse  will  comes  lust  /  and  a  lust 
yielded  to  becomes  custom  •  and  custom  not  resisted  be- 
comes necessiti/.  By  which  links,  as  it  were,  joined  to- 
gether as  in  a  chain,  a  hard  bondage  held  me  enthralled. 
And  that  new  will,  to  serve  Thee  freely  and  to  enjoy 
Thee,  O  God,  which  had  begun  to  be  in  me,  was  not  able 
to  overcome  my  former  long-established  wilfulness."  * 
Thus,  the  bondage  is  guilt ;  and  at  the  very  instant 
when  the  soul  is  weighed  down  with  a  sense  of  utter  im- 
potence to  holiness,  it  is  also  prostrate  before  the  judicial 
bar  with  the  consciousness  of  deserved  condemnation. 
The  enslavement  is  not  pleaded  in  excuse  of  sin,  because  it 
is  percei\ed  to  be  a  part  of  sin.  "  All  wickedness  is 
weakness,"  says  Milton's  helpless  Samson  Agonistes. 
The  element  of  servitude,  like  the  element  of  blindness, 
or  of  hardness,  is  part  and  particle  of  that  evil  and  abom- 
inable tiling  which  the  soul  of  God  hates.  The  reflex 
action,  or  reaction,  of  transgression,  upon  the  understand- 
ing, is  spiritual  blindness  ;  upon  the  heart,  is  spiritual 
hardness  or  insensibility  ;  upon  the  will,  is  spiritual  bond- 
age, or  inability  to  do  good.  The  voluntary  faculty  cannot, 
any  more  than  any  other  faculty  of  the  soul,  escape  the  re- 
action of  its  self-action.  Suicide  is  as  total  an  extinction 
of  life  as  homicide.  Whosoever  commits  sin,  by  and  in 
this  very  voluntary  act,  becomes  the  slave  {ZovKo<;)  of  sin. 
The  cause  inevitably  carries  its  consequence.  That  which 
is  done  cannot  be  undone ;  and  no  will  that  self-detcr- 
minedly  apostatizes  from  God  can  be  again  the  sound  and 
strong  faculty  in  reference  to  good,  that  it  was  before 
apostasy,  excej^t  through  the  intervention  of  Divine  reno- 
vating power.  The  moral  bondage,  therefore,  like  the 
moral  blindness  and  the  moral  hardness,  enters  into  the 

*  Confessions,  VIII.  5. 


THE   CONFESSIONS    OF    ACGUSXraE.  3G3 

sum  total  of  human  depravity,  and  goes  to  swell,  and  not 
dhninisli,  the  sum-total  of  human  condemnation.  All 
this  is  implied  in  Augustine's  anthropology.  Nowhere 
is  there  a  more  profo\ind  consciousness  of  the  impotence 
of  the  apostate  will,  and  nowhere  is  there  a  more  heart- 
felt and  humble  sense  of  personal  ill-desert,  than  is  ex- 
pressed in  these  Confessions.  "  In  these  spiritual  things," 
says  Augustine,  ''  ability  is  one  with  will,  and  to  will  is 
to  do ;  and  yet  the  thing  is  not  done.  Whence  is  this 
strange  anomaly  (monstrum)  ?  The  mind  commands  the 
hodij^  and  it  obeys  instantl}' ;  the  mind  commands  itself^ 
and  is  resisted.  The  mind  commands  the  hand  to  be 
moved,  and  such  readiness  is  there,  that  command  is 
scarce  distinct  from  obedience.  The  mind  commands  the 
mind,  its  own  8df^  to  will ;  and  yet  it  doth  not  will.  It 
commands  itself,  I  say,  to  will,  and  would  not  command 
unless  it  willed ;  and  yet  what  it  commands  is  not  done. 
But  it  willeth  not  entirely ;  therefore,  doth  it  not  com- 
mand entirely.  For,  it  c(»mmandeth  only  so  far  forth  as 
it  willeth.  The  will  cominandeth  that  there  be  a  will } 
not  another's  will,  but  its  own  will.  But  it  doth  not 
command  entlrelij  •  therefore,  what  it  connnandeth  does 
not  take  place."  * 

The  overlooking  of  this  voluntary  origin  of  the  bond- 
age of  tlie  human  will  has  led  to  much  misrepresentation 
of  tlie  theological  system  of  the  greatest  intellect  of  the 
patristic  period.  Friciids,  as  well  as  foes,  have  cluirged 
him  with  fafalism.  Kidman's  portrait  of  Augustine,  for 
example,  is  in  many  of  its  features  an  accui-ate  one,  and 
the  general  coloi-ing  is  laid  on  with  an  admii-ing  and  even 
an  entlinsiastic  eye.  But,  !Mihiiaii  represents  Augustln- 
ianism  "as  offering  u|)  free  agency  up(»n  the  altar  of  rc- 

*  ConfcssionH,  VIII.  9. 


36-1:  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF   AUGUSTINE. 

lipjion,  and  thereby  degrading  the  most  wonderful  work 
of  omnipotence — a  being  endowed  with  free  agency."  * 
This  statement  wouki  be  true,  had  Augustine  attributed 
the  bondage  of  the  human  will  to  the  creative  act  of  God. 
But,  in  his  theory,  it  is  the  product  of  a  human  act  of 
free  self-determination.  xSc^Z/'enslavement  and  self-rn'm, 
are  one  thing  ;  enslavement  by  the  creative  act,  and  ruin 
by  compulsory  force,  are  another.  The  charge  of  fatal- 
ism can,  logically,  be  made  only  against  the  latter.  The 
Latin  father  places  all  mankind  in  the  first  parents,  and 
starts  them  with  a  created  perfection — a  holy  will  and  an 
enlightened  understanding.  From  this  hiffh  vanta^-e- 
ground,  tliey  fall  by  an  act  of  self-determination  as  posi- 
tive, and  as  free,  as  that  by  which  any  one  of  Adam's 
])osterity  exerts  an  individual  volition.  Augustine  does 
not  explain  this,  but  he  always  postulates  and  supposes  it. 
An  opponent  may  charge  him  with  holding  a  mystery 
that,  in  his  own  opinion,  is  untenable ;  but  may  not 
charge  him  with  holding  to  a  created  sin,  or  to  a  perdi- 
tion that  is  necessitated  by  God. 

Such  are  some  of  the  more  salient  points  in  the  auto- 
biography of  Augustine.  A  moment's  reflection  upon 
them  will  evince  that  they  are  of  the  very  highest  order, 
and  that  such  a  religious  exj^erience  as  is  here  portrayed 
cannot  be  studied  without  profit.  This  book  is  worthy  of 
being  made  a  manual  of  devotion.  It  is  not  claimed  to 
be  entirely  free  from  erroneous  aspects  of  truth.  No 
man  wholly  escaj)es  the  faults  of  his  age  ;  and  the  Con- 
fessions of  Augustine  exhibit  some  of  the  deficiencies  of  the 
Church  of  the  fifth  century.  J>ut,  in  reference  to  the 
permanent  and  everlasting  elements  of  the  Christian  ex- 
perience, the  great  main  characteristics  of  the  Christian 

*  Milman's  Primitive  Christianity,  B.  III.  ch.  10. 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF   AUGUSTINE.  365 

life,  here  is  certainly  a  bold  and  accurate,  a  clear  and 
large  utterance.  "We  are  confident  that  familiarity  with 
this  book,  for  even  a  single  year,  would  perceptibly  affect 
the  person's  religious  experience.  It  would  infuse  into  it 
the  rare  quality  of  vividness.  There  are  no  stereotyped 
phrases,  no  technical  terms  or  f(n-ms.  It  is  the  life  of  God 
in  the  soul  of  a  strong  man,  rushing  and  rij)pli ng  with  the 
freedom  of  the  life  of  nature.  lie  who  watches  can  almost 
see  the  growth  ;  he  who  listens  can  hear  the  perpetual 
motion  ;  and  he  who  is  in  sympathy  will  be  swept  along. 
The  revising  of  these  Confessions  has  been  a  labor  of 
love.  As  we  have  scanned  the  sentences  and  syllables,  we 
have  seemed  to  hear  the  beating  of  that  flaming  heart, 
which  now  for  fifteen  centuries  has  burnt  and  throbbed 
with  a  seraph's  affection  in  the  Mount  of  God,  AVe  have 
seemed  to  look  into  that  deep  and  spiritual  eye  which 
gazed  without  shrinking,  yet  with  bitter  penitential  tears, 
into  the  deptlis  of  a  tormenting  conscience  and  a  sinful 
nature,  that  it  might  then  gaze  without  dazzling,  and  with 
unutterable  rapture,  into  the  eyes  and  face  of  the  Eternal. 
Our  Protestantii^m  concedes,  without  scru])le,  the  cogno- 
men of  saint  to  tliis  ethereal  spirit.  Our  Christianity  tri- 
umphs in  that  marvellous  power  of  grace,  which  wrought 
Rucii  a  wonderful  transformation.  Having  this  example 
and  living  fact  before  our  view,  we  believe  that  Christ 
the  ]j)rd  lias  all  [)0wer,  both  in  heaven  and  upon  earth  ; 
and  that  there  is  lodged  in  his  pierced  and  bleeding 
hands  a  spiritual  eneigy  that  is  able  to  renovate  the 
mightiest  and  the  most  vitiated  forms  of  humanity.  The 
CJaesars  and  Napoleons,  the  Jiyrons  and  tlie  Jlousscaus,  all 
the  passionate  spirits,  all  the  stormy  Titans,  arc  within 
rea(th  of  tliat  irresistible  influence  whi(*h  is  centred  in  the 
liedeinption  oi  the  Son  of  (Jod,  and  is  accessible  to  tho 
pi-ayers  and  the  faith  of  the  Church. 


Br.  %\M'%  MavU, 

By    WILLIAM    G.    T.    SHEDD,   D.D.,     • 

Professor  of  Systematic  Theology   in    Union    Tkeol.,pical  Seminary.  New  York. 


A      HISTORY      OF      CHRISTIAN 

DOCIRINE.     Two   vols.,  crown   8vo. 
Fifth  edition,  doth,  Ss-oo- 

HOMILETICS  AND  PASTORAL 
THEOLOGY.  One  vol.,  crown  8vo. 
Fifth  edition,  cloth,  $2.50. 


SERMONS    TO    THE     NATURAL 

MAN.     One  vol.,  crown  8vo.      .Second 
edition,  cloth,  I2.50. 

THEOLOGICAL  ESSAYS.  One  vol., 
Svo.  Enlarged  and  carefully  revised 
edition,  cloth,  ^2.50. 


A   HISTORY   OF   CHRISTIAN    DOCTRINE. 

"Dr.  Shedd  has  furnished  an  important  contribution  to  the  study  of  church  history. 
To  have  made  a  readable  book— a  book  which  must  interest  the  general  scholar  as  well 
as  the  professed  theologian — on  a  topic  so  difficult  and  so  remote  from  the  ordinary  inter- 
ests and  literary  currents  of  the  time,  is  itself  a  rare  and  very  great  merit,  denianding 
graceful  recognition  from  all  the  scholars  of  the  \M\:i."— North  American  Ke^iietv. 

"  It  is  many  years  since  a  more  valuable  contribution  has  been  made,  in  this  country 
or  F.ngland,  to  theological  literature  ;  one  the  study  of  which  will  yield  riper  fruits  of 
Christian  knowledge.  'J'hese  volumes  are  marked  by  a  thorouchness  of  knowledge  and 
clearness  of  statement,  as  well  as  by  a  certain  7Jitai  element  which  pervades  them,  and 
which  shows  the  love  of  the  author  for  his  great  theme,  and  that  he  takes  his  position,  not 
without  but  within  his  subject,  and  so  relates  the  transformations  and  developments  of 
religious  thought  as  if  he  had  himself  passed  through  l\\cm:^—Bil>liatheca  Sacra. 

"We  hold  that  this  is  the  most  important  contribution  that  has  been  made  to  our 
theological  literature  jduring  the  present  aet^.''—/'res6yterian  Standard. 

"  In  oui  judgment,  no  production  of  greater  moment  has  been  given  to  the  public  for 
a  long  time." — I'rinceton  Kevieir. 

•'A  body  of  theological  history  which  is  in  form  as  perfect  as  it  is  in  substance 
excellent." — .V.'  Y.  Hvening  Post. 

"It  well  deserves  an  honorable  and  permanent  place  in  the  standard  literature  of 
theology." — A'eii'  ]-l>iglandi'r. 

"  A  rich  addition  to  our  theological  literature."— /}w^»-/Vrt«   Theoloitcal  Rertetv. 

"Dr.  .Shedd's  HIsiory  of  Christian  Doctrine,  on  Its  first  appearance,  was  unani- 
mously recognized  as  filling  with  remarkable  success  a  blank  that  had  existed  in  our 
English  literature  on  this  imporl.int  subj -ct,  and  it  still  holds  the  foremost  place  ni 
works  of  this  class." — Kdinburxh  Daily  Revieiv. 

HOMILETICS     AND     PASTORAL     THEOLOGY. 

"The  work  will  be  found  to  be  an  admirable  guide  and  stimulus  in  whatever  per- 
tains lo  ihiH  department  of  thcilogy.  The  sludciit  finds  himself  in  the  hands  of  a  m.nster 
able  to  quicken  and  enlarge  his  scope  and  spirit.  The  honiileiic.il  precepts  arc  well 
il'iislr.itc'l  by  the  author'*  own  style,  which  is  muscular,  while  quivernig  with  nervous 
life.  Nowadays  one  rarely  reads  such  good  English  writin-.; — elevated  and  clear,  s.newy 
anil  flexible,  traiispircnt  (or  the  thought.  E.ich  topic  is  handled  in  a  true  progressive 
method.  f)ur  young  minisicrs  may  well  make  a  study  of  this  book." — Amrt  iian 
Theol.  Rrviem. 

"Wc  have  read,  and  with  the  profoiindest  interest,  the  whole  of  this  remarkable 
book.  To  our  view  it  is  tie  ablest  ami  the  b<sl  of  all  which  Dr.  Shedd  has  wrilKn. 
It  is  equally  remarkable  for  the  r.iiigc  of  its  erudition,  .iiid  for  the  keenness  and  lliiirou.;li- 
ness  of  lis  analysis  —  for  its  leiidency  lo  stimulate  the  intellect,  and  tc  enlarge  and  intensify 
(he  moral  purposes." — N.  V.  lixaminer. 


"\Vc  have  rc.id  this  bonk  with  nimost  uiuinnlificd  npproval.  Wc  cannot  but  regard 
it  .Ti,  on  (he  wlioU-,  tlic  very  best  imnliictioii  ot  the-  kind  with  which  we  arc  acquainted. 
1  he  liipics  disciisseil  arc-  of  the  first  importance  to  every  minister  of  Christ  cnRaged  in 
Rrtive  service,  and  their  disrussion  is  conducted  by  earnestness  as  well  as  ability,  and  in 
n  style  which  for  clear,  vigorous,  and  unexceptionable  Knglish,  is  itself  a  model." — TV. }'. 

'•  The  ablest  book  on  the  subject  which  the  generation  has  produced." —  Christian 
In  tellis^etifer. 

"Dr.  .Sbedd's  Homiletics  and  Pastoral  Theology  has  everywhere  been  welcomed 
■s  a  sasacions  and  valuable  contribution  to  the  equipment  of  our  rising  preachers." 
Kdiiiburf^h  Dtiily  Kcvifw, 

SERMONS    TO    THE    NATURAL    MAN. 

"These  Sermons  are  an  excellent  course  upon  the  theoloijy  of  the  law.  Dr.  Sliedd 
is  one  of  the  best  known  in  thiscotmtry  of  American  theologians,  and  those  who  are 
acquainted  with  his  writings  do  not  require  to  he  told  that  he  carries  out  '.us  ideas  with 
per.spicuity,  force,  and  conclusive  completeness." — /•'.dinburgli  Daily  Reviem. 

'"The  reader,  whether  he  assent  to  tlie  deductions  of  the  author  or  not.  must  admit 
that  they  are  enforced  with  logical  conciseness,  a  rare  wealth  of  learning,  and  an  uncom- 
mcn  ability  of  argumentation." — .V.   }'.  JCvt/iiiig  Post. 

"We  commend  this  volume  to  all  who  love  the  'strong  meat'  of  christian  truth, 
and  who  rejoice  in  the  adaptation  of  the  power  of  the  gospel  to  the  deepest  needs  of  the 
'natural  man.'" — Xaf  I  Baptist,  Phila. 

"The  author  has  given  us  a  collection  of  clear,  logical,  earnest  discourses,  well 
adapted  to  the  spirit  of  the  times.  We  specially  commend  the  work  to  preachers  of  the 
gospel."  — Methodist  Protestant,  Baltiniote. 

"I'hese  sermons  are  clear  in  thought,  the  style  is  lucid  and  simple,  and  free  from 
the  much-worn  phrases  of  the  pulpit.  I'he  arguments  of  the  author  are  well  arranged  and 
put  witi  great  force." — Christian  Union. 

THEOLOGICAL     ESSAYS. 

"These  Essays  bear  traces  on  every  page,  not  only  of  a  mind  disciplined  to  close 
thinking,  and  at  home  in  the  abstractions  of  philosophy  and  theology,  but  versed  in  the 
noblest  works  of  literature,  and  equally  able  to  appreciate  the  creations  of  art  and  imagi- 
nation. The  terseness  and  vigor  of  the  style  are  well  mated  to  the  character  of  the 
thought." — Nrtv  Knglander. 

"These  Essays  are  all  marked  by  profound  thotjght  and  perspicuity  of  sentiment. 
The  author  has  achieved  a  high  reputation  for  the  union  of  philosojiliic  insight  with  genu- 
ine scholarship  ;  of  depth  and  clearness  of  thought  with  force  and  elegance  of  style  ; 
and  for  profound  views  of  sin  and  grace,  cherished  not  merely  on  theoretical,  but  still 
more  on  moral  and  experimental  grounds. "—/V/«rc^o«  Kevieio. 

"The  Essay  upon  Evolution,  is  an  extraordinary  specimen  of  the  metaphysical 
treatise,  and  the  charm  of  its  rhetoric  is  not  less  noticeable  Prof.  Shedd  never  puts  his 
creed  under  a  bushel  ;  but  there  are  few  students  of  any  sect  or  class  that  will  not  derive 
great  assistance  from  his  labors." — Uiiiversalist  Quarterly. 

"  The  tendency  of  this  volume  is  to  encninage  doctrinal  investigation  and  doctrinal 
preaching  ;  to  stimulate  clergymen  to  improve  their  methods  of  study,  and  to  quicken 
their  love  of  inquiry  into  the  profoundest  truths  of  religion." — Bibliotheea  .Sacra. 

'•These  Essaj'S  abound  in  strong  thought,  firmly  and  clearly  expressed,  and  in  this 
the  reader  of  a  different  school  of  theology  will  take  a  pleasure,  while  he  may  dissent 
from  the  theory  i>ropounded." — Methodist  Quarterly. 

"A  book  equally  remarkable  for  profound  thought  and  for  dogmatic  severity. 
Perhaps  no  stronger  work  has  gone  forth  of  late  from  any  American  theologian,  nor  any 
work  which  at  the  same  time  runs  so  wholly  in  the  face  of  the  present  drift  of  religious 
sentiment  and  scientific  study." — Ne^n  York  Times. 

"TheOenevan  reformer  has  probably  no  abler  or  more  devoted  follower,  at  the 
present  day  than  the  author  of  these  essays.  In  the  circle  of  his  readers  he  will  find 
many  who  regard  the  study  of  his  writings  as  an  admirable  exercise,  for  the  vigor  of 
their  statements,  the  closeness  of  their  logic,  and  the  athletic  grasp  of  their  conclusions, 
although  their  own  convictions  are  not  represented  in  his  system  of  theology." — New 
York  Tribune. 

'•  IJr.  Sbedd's  weighty  and  forceful  rhetoric  has  been  the  admiration  and  despair 
of  most  of  his  readers.  To  weight  and  force,  we  must  add  one  other  quality  which  dis- 
tinguishes it,  namely,  ferTor.  Every  theological  student  and  every  minister  should 
possess,  and  should  not  only  read,  but  study  this  volume." — The  Presbyterian. 

*,♦  The  above  books /or  sale  by  all  booksell  rs,  or    will  be  sent,  post  or  expresi 
charges  paid,  upon  receipt  of  the  price  by  the  publishers, 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS, 

743  AND  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


THE    BIBLE    COMMENTARY. 


ACCORDING  TO  THE  AUTHORIZED  VERSION,  A.D.  1611. 
With  an  Explanatory  and  Critical  Commentary,  and  a  Revision 

of  the  Translation. 


Now  Ready.    Ccmplete  in  6  vols.    Royal  8vo.    Cloth,  $5, 

THE    OLD    TESTAMENT. 

Edited  by  F.  C.  COOK,  M.A.,  Canon  of  Exeter,  Preacher  at  Lincoln's  Inn, 
and  Chaplain  in  Ordinary  to  the  Queen. 

Vol      I. — Genesis,  Exodus,  Leviticus,  Numbers,  Deuteronomy. 

Vol.    II. —Joshua,  Judges,   Ruth,  Samuel,  ist  Kings. 

V<JL.  Ill  — 2d  Kings,  Chronicles,  Ezra,  Nehkmiah,  Esther. 

Vol.  IV. — Jon,  Psalms,  Proverbs,  Ecclesiastes,  Songof  Solomon. 

Vol.    V. — Isaiah,  Jkrkml\.h,  Lamenta  itons. 

Voi„  VI. — EzEKiEL,   Daniel,  The  Minor  Prophets. 

'I'he  want  of  a  plain,  Explanatorj-  COMMKN'l'ARY  ON  THE  BIHLF,  more  com- 
plete and  accurate  than  any  accessible  to  Kiiijlish  readers  having  been  long  felt  by  men  of 
education,  in  i86i  the  SPEAKKK  OKTHE^HOUSK  OF  COMMONS  con-^nlte  I  some 
of  the  the  Hishops  as  to  the  best  way  of  supplying  the  deficiency  ;  and  the  ARCH- 
HISHOP  OF'  YORK  undertook  to  organize  a  plan  for  producing  such  a  work,  by  the 
co-operation  of  scho'ars  selecteil  for  th:ir  biblical  le  irning. 

The  great  object  of  this  Commentary,  of  which  the  Old  Testament  is  now  completed, 
is  to  fiut  the  general  reader  in  full  possession  of  whatever  information  may  be  requisite  to 
enable  him  to  understand  the  Holy  Scriptures,  to  gi  e  him,  as  far  as  possible,  the  same 
advantages  as  the  scholar,  and  to  supply  him  with  satisfactory  answers  to  objections 
resting  upon  misrepresentations  of  the  te.xt. 

It  was  decided  to  r<print.  without  alteration,  the  Authorized  Version  from  the  edition 
of  i6ir,  with  the  marginal  references  and  renderings.  Special  care  has  been  taken  to 
furnish  in  all  cases  amended  trauslations  of  passages  proved  to  be  incorrect  in  our  version. 
The  Comment  is  chiefly  explanatory,  presenting,  in  a  concise  and  readable  form,  the 
results  of  learned  investigations,  carried  on  in  this  and  other  countries  during  the  last 
half  century.  When  fuller  discussipns  of  difficult  passages  or  important  subjects  are 
necessary,  they  are  placed  at  the  end  of  the  chapter,  or  of  the  volume. 

The  conduct  of  the  work — as  general  Editor — has  been  entrusted  to  the  Rev.  F.  C. 
Cook,  M.A.,  Canon  of  Kxeler,  Preacher  at  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  Chaplain  in  Ordinary  to 
the  (,)ueen. 

The  Archbishop  of  York,  in  consultation  with  the  Regius  Professors  of  Divinityr  of 
Oxford  and  Cambridge,  advises  with  the  general  Editor  upon  questions  arising  during 
tlie  progress  of  the  work. 

//V    THE    rRF.SS. 

THE    NEW    TESTAMENT. 

Vol.       I.  —  M ATiiiLW,  .Makk,  ami  Luke. 

Vol.    II. — John  and  Acrs. 

Vol.   III.  —  El'ISTLKS   OK  St.  Paul. 

Vol.    IV. — Catholic  Ei'Istles  and  Revelations. 


♦,•  Thr  ahmif  books  for  tale  by  nil  bocktelltrt,  or  11^11  be  sent,  post  or  exprrti 
iharget  fit  id,  uf^n  rfceijtt  of  thr  price  by  the  publishers, 

CHARLES    SCRir.NM'.R'S    SOMS, 

7-13  and  745  IJkoadway,   New  Yokk, 


Eangp^s  dommFnfapg, 

CRITICAL,  DOCTRINAL,  AND  HOMILETICAL. 
TRANSLATED,    ENLARGED,    AND     EDITED 

PHILIP    SCHAFF,    D.D., 

PROFESSOR    IN    TUB    UNION    THI;OI.ih;ICAL   Sli.MINAKY. 


This  is  the  most  comprehensive  and  exhaustive  Commentary  on  the  whole 
Bible  ever  publislied  in  this  or  any  otlier  country.  It  will  be  completed  in 
24  large  royal  octavo  volumes.  Twenty-two  volumes  have  already  appeared, 
and  tlie  remaining  two  are  now  in  press. 

The  German  work,  on  which  the  English  edition  is  based,  is  the  product 
of  about  twenty  distinguished  Biblical  scholars,  of  Germany,  Holland,  and 
Switzerland,  and  enjoys  a  high  reputation  and  popularity  wherever  German 
tlieology  is  studied. 

Tlie  .Vinerican  edition  is  not  a  mere  translation  (although  embracing  the 
whole  of  the  German),  but,  to  a  large  extent,  an  orii^inal  work  ;  about  one- 
third  of  the  matter  being  added,  and  the  whole  adapted  to  the  wants  of  the 
English  and  American  student.  Its  popularity  and  sale  has  been  lately 
increasing  in  Great  Britain. 

The  press  has  been  almost  unanimous  in  its  commendation  of  Langk's 
CoM.MKNTARY.  It  is  generally  regarded  as  being,  on  tlie  whole,  the  most 
useful  Commentary,  especially  for  ministers  and  theological  students — in 
which  they  are  more  likely  to  find  what  they  desire  than  in  any  other.  It  is 
a  complete  treasury  of  Biblical  knowledge,  brought  down  to  the  latest  date. 
It  gives  the  results  of  careful,  scholarly  research  ;  yet  in  a  form  sufficiently 
popular  for  the  use  of  intelligent  laymen  The  Honiiletical  department 
contains  the  best  thoughts  of  the  great  divines  and  pulpit  orators  of  all  ages, 
on  the  texts  explained,  and  supi)lics  rich  suggestions  for  sermons  and  Bible 
lectures. 

The  following  are  some  of  the  chief  merits  of  this  Commentary  : 

1.  //  is  orthodox  and  sound,  without  being  sectarian  or  denominational. 
It  fairly  represents  the  exegetical  and  doctrinal  consensus  o{  evangelical 
divines  of  the  present  age,  and  yet  ignores  none  of  the  just  claims  of  liberal 
scientific  criticism. 

2.  It  is  comprehensive  and  complete — giving  in  beautiful  order  the 
authorized  English  version  with  emendations,  a  digest  of  the  Critical  .'\i)pa- 
ratus,  Exegetical  Explanations,  Doctrinal  and  Ethical  Inferences  and 
Reflections,  and  Homiletical  and  Practical  Hints  and  Applications. 

3.  //  is  the  product  of  Ji/ty  American  (/<esidcs  twetity  liuropcan)  Scholars, 
from  the  leading  denominations  and  Theological  institutions  of  the  country. 
Professors  in  the  Theological  Seminaries  of  New  York,  Princeton,  Andover, 
New  Haven,  Hartford,  Cambridge,  Rochester,  Philadelphia,  Cincinnati, 
Alleghany,  Chicago,  Madison,  and  other  places,  representing  the  Presbyte- 
rian, Episcopal,  Congregational,  Baptist,  Methodist,  Lutheran, and  Reformed 
Churches,  have  contributed  to  this  Commentary,  and  enriched  it  with  the 
results  of  their  special  studies.  It  may,  therefore,  claim  a  national  character 
more  than  any  other  work  of  the  kind  ever  published  in  this  country. 

***  The  above  book  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,   or  iintl  be  sent,  post  or  express 
charges  p.iid,  upon  receipt  of  the  price  by  the  piibtishers, 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS, 

743  A.ND  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


JProf.  M,  #.  M^ifnPB's  Morhs. 


Language  and  the  Study  of  Language. 

TWELVE  LECTURES  ON  THE  PRINCIPLES  OF  LINGUISTIC 
SCIENCE.  By  William  Dwight  Whitney,  Professor  ol 
Sanskrit  and  Comparative  Philcjlogy  in  Yale  College.  A'ew 
Edition  -with  Analysis.      One  vol.,  crown  8v>.  cloth,       .     $2.50 

Front  ike  Nenu  York  Times. 

"This  work  of  Professor  Whitney  is  one  of  unusual  interest,  which  will  afford  to  tha 
general  reader  a  better  sur\ey  than  he  can  elsewhere  find  of  the  present  state  of  lin- 
^istic  science,  and  it  is  also  full  of  original  and  profound  conclusions  respecting  tha 
nature  and  office  of  human  speech.  By  its  perusal,  an  intelligent  reader  will  of  neces- 
sity be  quickened  to  higlrer  intellectual  action,  while  the  facts  and  principles  he  will 
learn  will  be  suggestive  and  fruitful  in  all  future  studies  respecting  the  character  and 
histor)-  of  man." 

ORIENTAL  AND  LINGUISTIC  STUDIES. 

FIRST    SERIES. 

THE  VEDA,  THE  AVESTA,  THE  SCIENCE  OF  LANGUAGE. 
By  Prof.  W.  D.  Whitney,  of  Yale  College.  One  vol.,  crown 
8vo,  cloth, $2.50 

ff~^  TFrom  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 
"  We  would  warmly  recommend  this  book  to  teachers  and  students,  and  to  al'  who 
take  any  interest  in  the  coiulition  of  one  of  the  most  fascinating  of  sciences.  Wc  -rust 
that  the  author  will  fulfil  his  half  promise  of  giving  us  another  volume;  there  i>  no 
(upertluity  of  such  books  in  the  American  market,  nor  in  any  market,  for  the  iTAtter 
e)f  that." 


ORIENTAL  AND  LINGUISTIC  STUDIES. 

SECOND     SERIES. 

THE  EAST  AND  WEST;  RELIGION  AND  MYTHOLOGY; 
ORTHOGRAPHY  AND  PHONOLOGY;  HINDU  ASTRON- 
OMY. By  Prof.  W.  D.  Whitney,  of  Yale  College.  One  vol., 
crown  8vo,  cloth,     ........         $2.50 

From  tilt  Providence  Journal. 

"Wc  ferl  assured  this  volume  will  receive  a  glad  welcome  from  5cho1an,  and  w« 
hope  the  author  may  be  moved  to  folluw  it  up  with  a  third.  He  will  cv^-r  find  ac 
tudicncc  rc.'uly  to  listen  to  whatcvci  he  m.iy  thmk  worthy  of  bcinif  said,  especially  01 
•latiers  pcrtaming  to  language." 


Any  or  at!  «/  the  above  tent,  /oii  er  ex/>rin  charges  paiti,  on  receipt  cf  the 
trier,  by  the  I'ucliikeri, 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,   NEW   YORK. 


••  Tht  great  merits  of  this  work  have  long  since  made  it  an  American 
Classic,  as  well  as  given  it  an  international  refutation." — TlIE  Natiou, 


The  Earth  as  Iodified  by  Human  Action 

BY    GEORGE    P.    MARSH, 

Author    of    "Lectures    on    the    English    Language,"    Ac. 

A    NEW  AND   REVISED    EDITION. 
Oae  volume,  crown  8vo,  cloth.    Price  reduced  from  $4.50  to  $3. 


OPINIONS    OF   THE   ritJSSS. 

The  London  Spectator — "The  book,  though  it  is,  as  we  have  said,  scientific  in 

method,  is  intended  loss  for  the  professed  physicist  than  for  persons  of  general  intelli- 
gence and  culture,  and  to  such  we  sincerely  recommend  it.  The  style  is  clear  and 
often  graphic,  and  the  work  is  full  of  interesting  and  suggestive  information." 

The  Nation — "  It  is  in  our  opinion  one  of  the  most  useful  and  suggestive  works  evef 
publishe<l,  and  to  tliose  who  h^ve  never  reflected  on  the  various  ways  in  which  man- 
kind, consciously  or  unconsciously,  disturb  the  equilibrium  of  nature  with  effects  bene- 
ficial, indifferent,  or  disastrous,  as  the  case  may  be,  Mr.  Marsh's  observations  and 
laboriously-collected  facts  will  come  with  the  force  of  a  revelation.  The  least  obser- 
\ant  and  reflecting  will  find  entertainment  in  reading  him,  and  all  may  profit  by 
his  teachings." 

The  Evangelist — "At  whatever  part  of  the  book  the  reader  commences,  he  will  find 
himself  reluctant  to  lay  it  down.  'I'o  an  intelligent  reader  it  presents  a  most  fascin- 
ating subject  of  study,  and  will  be  read  over  and  over  again  with  new  pleasure.  It 
will  quicken  his  own  observation  of  nature,  and  will  thus  prove  of  great  practical 
utility." 

The  Congregationalist — "To  the  multitude  of  readers  to  whom  it  is  a  stranger  we 
may  say  th.at  it  is  worthy  of  their  eager  acquaintance.  They  will  find  it  a  storehouse 
of  most  interesting  facts,  skillfully  arran:4ed  by  a  ptiilosophic  mind  into  a  story 
whose  fascination  is  fully  equaled  by  its  imporuint  bearing  upon  the  general  welfare." 

The  Churchman — "To  those  who  are  interested  in  Physical  Geography,  and  more 
especially  in  the  relation  between  that  study  of  Social  Science  and  Political  Economy, 
this  work  will  be  of  great  value.  It  must  be,  moreover,  to  all,  a  source  of.  literary 
entertainment  and  a  means  of  useful  instruction." 

The  N.Y.  Daily  "World — "Mr.  Marsh  addresses  himself  in  this  work  to  practical 
and  thinking  men,  not  to  physicists.  It  would  be  a  happy  thing  if  this  work  could 
find  a  place  in  every  farmer's  library.  It  contains  a  mine  of  facts  which  in  an  inci- 
dental way  would  be  of  invaluable  use  to  him." 

The  Watchman  and  Reflector — "The  Author  gives  to  his  treatment  of  a  largo 
and  generous  scholarship  a  broad  and  accurate  knowledge  of  facts,  a  clear,  simple, 
eloquent  style,  and  a  spirit  earnest  for  the  conservation  of  those  elements  in  the  world 
around  us  that  are  essential  for  the  best  physical  being  of  tlie  human  race." 


*»•  TAe  above  book  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent,  excess  charges  ^id, 
vp<nt  receij>i  0/  the  irice,  by 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS, 

743  AND  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


0      JAN  1 2J970  _  .. 

vP  3  0  m 

* 

Form  L9-Serie8  444 

